


Young Hearts

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Closeted Character, Clothing Kink, Dirty Talk, Drunkenness, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Hook-Up, Kissing, Loneliness, Love Confessions, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Meet-Cute, Messy, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Set in the 90s, past bad relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: Mycroft found himself face to face with one of the policemen.“Sorry, got a light?”Mycroft handed over his lighter without thinking, caught up in the large, dark eyes peering at him from under a bit of messy fringe. Mycroft blinked and watched them move away, focusing on the task of lighting a cigarette. This man had fantastic eyebrows and a rather heart-stoppingly handsome face.When the man handed back the lighter, Mycroft let their fingers brush. The man smiled. “Greg,” he said. “Thanks for the light.”“Mycroft.” He was a little surprised at himself; he hardly ever gave his actual first name in situations like these.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 62
Kudos: 315





	1. Love only breaks up, to start over again

Mycroft managed to sleep through the entirety of Marcus’ sneak toward the door. He woke as the bedroom door creaked, as it always did, on its way closed. Marcus didn’t shut it all the way, and judging by the tense pause just on the other side of it, the creak had worried him. Mycroft could picture him freezing in his tracks, as if the click of the latch might be the nail in his coffin, the thing to interrupt his quiet exit. 

Mycroft sighed at his bedroom ceiling. 

It would have been less insulting had Marcus simply gotten dressed and fucked off directly after the sex. It would have been nice if, just this once, Mycroft’s hearing could have failed him. He would have preferred to sleep through this pathetic dance. A glance at his bedside clock confirmed that it was now half past three in the morning. Now Mycroft would be up half the night - he could never get back to sleep once awake - and he was already feeling the throb of a red wine hangover in his temples. 

There was a rustle, barely audible, of Marcus’ jacket being shrugged on, and then the quiet open and shut of the door to Mycroft’s flat. 

The bathroom faucet was dripping. The heat clicked and then bubbled as the radiators filled. Mycroft felt sticky and tired and a little ashamed - which wasn’t to be tolerated. 

Nothing for it but to shower. 

  
  


*

  
  


“You shouldn’t.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and kept his attention trained on his feigned reading of the newspaper. “And you shouldn’t wear puce,” he snipped. “We all have our little foibles.”

Alicia - the recently married Lady Smallwood - adjusted the purplish collar of her blouse and tsked at him. “Don’t be that way.”

“What would you have me do?” Mycroft wondered coolly, turning the page of his paper, though he didn’t need to read the next page - gossip, half-truths about people he knew personally, information he’d had for weeks or months already. “Find a nice girl and settle down? Someone with a title? Michael Smallwood, but with breasts?”

Alicia threw a grape at him, plucking it out of her salad and flicking it with one perfectly manicured fingernail. “You’re never going to settle down with a woman.”

“I’m never going to settle down with a  _ man.”  _

“And why not? 

Mycroft glanced up from the meaningless columns of ‘news’ and quirked an eyebrow. 

“Oh, please. Your career is practically set in stone.”

“Perhaps I don’t wish to settle down at all.”

“We both know you can’t be this… well…”

“Slutty?”

_ “Promiscuous.  _ You can’t keep it up forever.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Eventually I’ll go half bald or soft in the middle or both. Eventually I’ll be too intimidating for anyone to want to fuck casually. I practically already am. I am aware that there is an expiry date on my… personal life. Leave me to it, you harpy. Let me  _ live.” _

She sighed. “You’re so melodramatic. Just get a bloody boyfriend.”

“That sounds miserable,” Mycroft muttered. He snapped shut his paper and folded it crisply. “I think Marcus has run his course.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Two hours or so. Crept out just after three. Not so much as a ‘see you at the polo, Holmes.’ It was in very bad taste.”

“They think you’re going to get clingy,” Alicia told him before taking a delicate bite of field greens and goat cheese. “That’s how men are. Nevermind you’re using them for their cock, they can’t imagine not being desperately wanted or needed, nor can they imagine reciprocity. They want you to cling, because it feeds their ego, but they would rather choke than respond to it with anything but the brush-off. The worst of our species, really.”

“It may have escaped your notice, but I am in fact a man.”

Alicia smirked. “It didn’t escape my notice. Or have you forgotten our brief affair?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed back from the table. “Oh, please.”

“Mycroft, you remain the best kisser I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, goody.” He removed his credit card from his wallet. “I’ll pay. I need to get back to my office.”

“Mmm.” She dabbed delicately at the corners of her mouth with her napkin before resting it on the table. “So do I. Listen, I only want you to be happy.”

“I am perfectly content.”

She sighed. 

“Alicia.”

“Holmes.” She pouted at him, chin resting atop her interlaced fingers. “You used to be such a romantic.”

“I  _ never _ was.” He rolled his eyes yet again, sure they would pop out of their sockets before this lunch ended. Their server swept by and took Mycroft’s card without so much as a word. “How ridiculous.”

“You were.” She shook her head sadly. “It was that terrible business with Richard, and then that arsehole Kenneth—”

“I don’t wish to discuss either of those people.” Mycroft leveled her with his steeliest look. “Leave it.”

“Everyone goes through heartbreak.”

“I haven’t.”

Alicia clucked at him and reached for her handbag where it hung over the side of her chair. “I’ll need the powder room before I go. Don’t feel the need to wait for me.”

“I won’t.”

“Perhaps you could try dating, rather than casual sex.” 

  
“Go away.”

She stood and shouldered the thin strap of her bag. “Maybe even meet some real people, and not the cartoon characters we grew up with.”

“Goodbye, Alicia.”

“Same time next week?”

“Of course.”

She threw him a wink and slipped away in a flurry of heel clicks. Mycroft watched her make effortless small talk with someone who waylaid her in her path toward the ladies’ room - an old school acquaintance, Alicia hated her, the feeling was mutual - until the server returned with his credit card and slip to sign. 

  
  


*

  
  


What Alicia didn’t know - or at least, Mycroft had never told her, and he assumed that had she figured it out one way or another she would have gloated about it - was that he had long abandoned the prospect of sticking to his usual pool of uppercrust homosexuals and under-the-radar ‘straight men’ who took the future Lady so-and-so to this dinner or that charity ball, but shagged their old rowing mates and uni pals with abandon whenever the mood struck or the opportunity was nigh. 

Obviously Mycroft still indulged - Marcus, for example, had been in Mycroft’s social circle since before Oxford, and he and Mycroft had enjoyed a loose arrangement for months now. But that was unreliable, and frankly rather boring. Made even less viable by Marcus’ gauche walk of shame in the wee hours of that morning. 

And so, Mycroft went home from work, took a one hour nap so he wouldn’t look completely haggard by midnight, showered and dressed, and made his way to Soho. 

He wouldn’t normally do this on a weekend night, because crowds made him uneasy, but dinner with his acquaintances from the Home Office had been Thursday night, and despite barely sleeping and having dragged himself through the first half of the day shaking off the dregs of tannins and too many cigarettes, Mycroft felt the need to cleanse his palate of Marcus’ bad behavior with something… uncomplicated.

The club wasn’t busy when he arrived, but it would pick up by eleven, he knew, and so Mycroft acquired a seat at the very end of the u-shaped bar, ordered a vodka tonic, and observed. 

This would be an odd night. No big theme on - those were usually saved for Saturdays. The fliers slapped to every wall, booth and door in the place proclaimed this Friday a ‘Throwback’ night, whatever that meant - likely he would have his ears assaulted by disco until the early hours, and Mycroft thought grouchily that if he’d wanted that, he could have simply passed the evening drinking with Uncle Rudy, listening to tales of days gone by. 

For the earlier crowd, the music was a formless house beat shot through with sampled Top of the Pops hits. Easy to ignore. 

From his spot, Mycroft spotted the die-hard drinkers - solo, or in small groups; the too-old-for-this early nighters who wouldn’t make it to midnight - a group Mycroft would find himself a part of, no doubt, soon enough (or at least, all of the pretty young things would think he belonged there once he skated too close to thirty); the old guard, only a small number of over-forties who would, in Mycroft’s experience, either tend toward the early nighter track, or the die-hard drinking one; and the nervous trade. 

This last, consisting so far of maybe three men he could spot from his vantage point, was Mycroft’s bread and butter on nights like this. He had no interest in pretty young things - not when he could still play at being one, with the right posture, the right carelessness. He didn’t care to be pawed by a drunk, or toyed with by a banker with a wife at home. He had, for a time, had a bit of a penchant for older men, but… they never took him seriously. Maybe now, twenty-five and no longer a student, no longer living in a set of rooms at his Uncle’s house…

But no. 

Mycroft did have something of a type, and it was none of these things, and it also wasn’t upperclass twats who are either halfway through the closet to Narnia, or gay but posh about it - like Mycroft himself. 

No. 

It was… these men. 

In particular, that night, Mycroft had his eye on a dark-haired loner who was leaning against the wall just inside the door with an obvious case of the jitters. Mycroft avoided deducing too much about him; that would take the fun out of it. Instead, he tracked the man out of the corner of his eye as the crowd thickened. He found someone to dance with, and then another someone. He got involved in conversation with a small knot of men who were old friends on the prowl together, one in particular letting his touches linger on Mycroft’s hand, his forearm, his back. 

Mycroft enjoyed the attention, but his eye slid ever sideways, looking for his bit of dark-haired rough in the crowd. 

It was unlike him, but Mycroft lost the man somewhere in the crush of bodies, just after the music tipped over into what  _ could  _ be considered retro. 

_ Young hearts, run free… _

And Mycroft couldn’t find him. 

There was now a small group of… Mycroft blinked.  _ Cops. Police officers. Vice squad.  _

No reason to worry, really. Mycroft would leave, should things appear to be heating up, and handily avoid his name appearing on any paperwork whatsoever. It wasn’t as if he had cause to feel guilty or concerned. But he quickly realized that these - Scotland Yard’s finest - were  _ off duty.  _ Or at least, not here on any particular business. Perhaps scoping out the place for some future operation. Or, judging by the smirks on the majority of faces, they were here as a joke. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned away, half-listening to whatever was being said by the man currently trailing questing fingers up Mycroft’s side, and looked for the one he’d spotted earlier. 

No such luck. 

Mycroft sighed and made his excuses. He needed the restroom, and then the bar again. He would get another drink, and then regroup. He was charming and made promises to his would-be admirer, gently holding the intrusive fingers in his own and pushing them away without  _ pushing them away.  _

He skipped the loos, and instead took himself outside for a smoke. 

He could have done it inside, but… air. A quick review of his last mental image of the room. Where was his hot little bit of dark-haired rough trade? Perhaps he could return to the dancefloor with a map in mind. 

Instead, Mycroft found himself face to face with one of the policemen. 

“Sorry, got a light?”

Mycroft handed over his lighter without thinking, caught up in the large, dark eyes peering at him from under a bit of messy fringe. Mycroft blinked and watched them move away, focusing on the task of lighting a cigarette. This man had fantastic eyebrows and a rather heart-stoppingly handsome face. 

When the man handed back the lighter, Mycroft let their fingers brush. The man smiled. “Greg,” he said. “Thanks for the light.”

“Mycroft.” He was a little surprised at himself; he hardly ever gave his actual first name in situations like these. “No trouble, of course. Is everything alright?”

“Hm?” Greg quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, ‘course, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Police aren’t exactly a good sign at establishments such as this one.”

Greg’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Sorry— what? How did you—” 

“I recognize the type,” Mycroft demurred. “One grows accustomed to exercising vigilance.”

Greg surprised Mycroft by laughing, a little ironic huff into the cup of his hand, before taking a drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Oh?”

“My mate from work - I don’t even know him that well, to be honest - he’s getting married tomorrow, and a bunch of the others wanted to take him out tonight, get him a little blotto, send him off right.” Greg snorted and rolled his eyes. “His fiancé’ll kill him, of course, if he shows up to his own wedding hungover, but… Anyway, I guess one of the blokes thought bringing the party here would be funny. A joke.”

“I see.” Mycroft considered this man - not his handsome face (not  _ only _ his handsome face) but his entire manner in this moment, standing outside of a well known gay dance club, talking to an obviously gay man, standing not three feet apart and chatting over cigarettes. “You don’t find it funny.”

“No.” Greg visibly stifled a wry smile. “Told them to go on ahead to their next pub. Said I didn’t feel well. Figured… I haven’t been in a place like this in ages. Not since I was basically a kid. Didn’t feel right to leave with them and have it be a joke.” 

“Are you  _ deeply _ closeted?” Mycroft drawled, teasing. “Big bad policeman, can’t let on he knows what the back room looks like in places like this?” 

“Yup,” Greg replied cheerfully. “More or less.” 

“Hm.” Mycroft finished his cigarette and tossed the butt. “Would you like to come inside and buy me a drink, then?” 

Greg grinned round his cigarette. “Yeah, actually. I really would.”

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft didn’t talk to his potential bedmates this much, usually. Obviously when a hook up hailed from Mycroft’s usual social circle, there wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said. There was hardly even a need for negotiation. Everyone knew what they were getting into, there. 

And when Mycroft picked up men in bars and clubs, conversation didn’t seem particularly necessary, either. He wasn’t interested in their boring job or their terrible relationship with their mother. And they didn’t spare a single thought for him, either. And that was fine. That was preferable. 

Greg, though, was a talker. And very charming. Mycroft didn’t have the first clue what to do about it. 

“You’re not some minor royal, are you?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. “Why on earth would you ask me that?”

“You’re just tight-lipped is all,” Greg replied, all affable, white-toothed smile and playful eyebrows. “I ask what you do, you say oh, this or that. I ask if you grew up in London, you say oh, if you can call it that. How about this one - d’you live nearby? Or is there a palace you need to hurry off to by midnight?”

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek, charmed. “I am not a minor royal. I apologize for being… reticent. I normally don’t…”

“What? Normally don’t get chatted up in clubs?”

“I do, actually, but not to this extent.”

“I see.” Greg hid his grin in his drink. “You’re a ‘wham, bam, thank you’ sort of bloke. I hope you’re not planning to drag me into the back hallway over there. It’s not really my scene.”

Mycroft’s nose wrinkled. “Nor is it mine.”

Greg drained his glass. “What about dancing?”

“Sorry?”

“Dancing,” Greg said, eyes sparkling as he held out a hand. “That your scene?”

“It’s  _ disco night.”  _ Mycroft tried to imbue the words with as much disdain as possible. 

“And?” Greg kept holding out his hand. “C’mon, Mycroft. Don’t leave me this way.”

“Ugh.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “That was terrible.”

“Suppose if you won’t dance… I will survive. But—”

“Oh, shut up.” 

Mycroft took his hand. 

  
  


*

  
  


_ God.  _

Well, this was unexpected. Mycroft never bothered with this. The dancing… thing. When he danced with someone, it was perfunctory. An  _ in.  _ A way to bump into a target and open the lines of proposition. It wasn’t like this. 

Greg’s hands on Mycroft’s hips were strong and firm, but they didn’t grab at him. They followed the subtle shifts of Mycroft’s body and only tugged when Mycroft wanted them to. Greg was good at reading cues. Their faces tilted close together, but they didn’t kiss. Their mouths were  _ right there, _ but Mycroft wanted the tease and, clearly, Greg could tell. Or maybe he wanted it, too. 

Eventually Greg turned him gently, and with a loose arm around Mycroft’s body, his fingers teasing sweetly at his collarbone, rocked his hips against Mycroft’s backside. His nose nuzzled down beneath Mycroft’s ear, breath gusting hot down his throat. Mycroft let his head tip back onto Greg’s solid shoulder, and sighed. 

He hated disco, but he knew already that this moment, with a very handsome, nice man teasing Mycroft in just the way he wanted, would stick around in his memory for some time - possibly forever - and would be accompanied irrevocably by the dulcet tones of Donna Summer. 

“You should take me to yours,” Greg murmured in Mycroft’s ear as the song melted into another. “Not yet, though.”

“Oh?”

“Dance with me some more.”

Mycroft nodded, reached up and back to thread fingers through Greg’s hair and tug suggestively. “Whatever you like.”

“I like you.” Greg’s lips pressed briefly to Mycroft’s upturned jaw, then to his exposed neck. “Fuck. I like you.”

“Good.” Mycroft shoved his fingers deeper into the soft strands of hair. “That’s good.”

  
  


*

  
  


Everything was just slightly left of center for the rest of the night. Mycroft couldn’t quite correct for it, either. He found himself pressed up against the inside of the door to his own flat, calloused hands working their way under his untucked shirt to skim over his ribs and around to his back, thick fingers digging into his skin just hard enough to feel interesting. 

Mycroft would normally have led his partner for the night in with some level of cool indifference, or even a straightforward question or statement.

_ How do you want me? How do you want it? Take off your clothes. Meet me in the bedroom. It’s just through there.  _

Instead he found himself kissing Greg for the first time before he even got his key in the lock, and that kiss carried them across the threshold and into the flat. It didn’t stop for Greg’s body crowding Mycroft against the door. It didn’t stop for Mycroft to get things back on track. It simply didn’t stop. 

Greg’s tongue was skillful, not too much or too little against Mycroft’s own, and his lips were confident, clasping and sucking like he’d known Mycroft and what he liked already. 

Mycroft whimpered,  _ whimpered,  _ as Greg’s teeth scraped sweetly over his own lower lip and Greg released his mouth for just a moment. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Greg breathed, which was enough to stun Mycroft into a momentary freeze. 

It was just long enough to allow Greg time to sink to his knees at Mycroft’s feet. 

“Can I suck you?” He peered up at Mycroft with those dark, liquid eyes. “I’d love to. Come down my throat, then I’ll ride your cock later.”

Mycroft panted harshly, hand finding its way into Greg’s hair for the hundredth time that night. “What?”

“Or you can— I can fuck you, I don’t care.” Greg teased at the bulge of Mycroft’s erection through his trousers, rubbing first with his lips and then with the point of his chin, tilting his head back to gaze up at Mycroft through lidded eyes. “Just… Whatever you want.”

Mycroft had never… literally never, been so caught off guard in the context of sex.  _ Whatever you want?  _ Really?  _ Later?  _ Greg wanted to… be there later? Do more than simply— 

“Please,” Greg murmured from his place on his knees. His fingers were soft against Mycroft’s tender skin over his hipbones, tracing the edge of the waist of his trousers. “Let me.” 

Mycroft nodded, mute, and then watched as Greg sighed happily and pressed his face against Mycroft’s clothed cock and  _ breathed in.  _

“In the bedroom,” Mycroft blurted, needing a moment to collect himself, lest he go off like a shot the moment this delicious creature got his flies open. 

“Lead the way.”

  
  


*

  
  


By the time their clothes were off, Mycroft was no less baffled and no less thrilled with the direction the night had taken. He couldn’t remember the last time sex had gone quite in this order. Not since— well, he wasn’t going to think about that. This wasn’t even  _ quite  _ the same as… that. 

Greg knelt behind him now, hard cock snug against Mycroft’s arsecheek, his arms around him like they had been on the dancefloor. He tilted Mycroft’s head gently to the side and kissed over his neck, soft and lush with the occasional careful nip. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed of the way it made him shudder. Greg seemed to like that, anyway, holding Mycroft up with one arm and reaching around to stroke his cock with the other, the kisses pausing for low-mumbled praise. 

Mycroft twisted, unsettling their trembling arrangement, to silently beg for a kiss. Greg gave it, rough hand holding his jaw, squeezing so Mycroft opened his mouth for him. He groaned, and Greg’s hand twisted on the upstroke as his tongue fucked between Mycroft’s gasping lips. 

They tumbled to the mattress, Mycroft’s eager hands tugging Greg down on top of him, thighs spreading quickly to frot up, to get friction against his cock and Greg’s. 

“Shh,” Greg soothed. One hand stroked along Mycroft’s side. “Slow down, gorgeous.”

Mycroft huffed.  _ Slow down.  _ What sort of person wanted a slow one-night stand? “Why?”

“Maybe I want to enjoy this.” Greg hovered scant centimeters away, his mouth just barely brushing Mycroft’s as he spoke. “Don’t you?” 

“I’d enjoy coming.”

“Later,” Greg promised, and began to move down, fingers teasing over Mycroft’s skin as he went, mouth burning a trail to Mycroft’s waiting cock. “I told you I want to suck you. And then we’ll go again.”

_ “Christ,” _ Mycroft hissed as wet heat engulfed him and one of Greg’s broad hands gripped him firmly. “Fine, whatever you want.”

“Good,” Greg muttered, then filled his mouth again. 

  
  


*

  
  


It was even more shocking later. Mycroft had come explosively down Greg’s throat as promised, and then been petted sweetly until he’d caught his breath. Then there had been kissing. A lot of kissing. And teasing. Greg stretched alongside him and stroked himself idly, one arm flung up behind his head, propping himself up like a demigod in Mycroft’s bed while Mycroft’s fingers teased his nipples and stroked over his thighs, followed soon by his mouth.

No one could blame him;  _ anyone _ would want to run their tongue over those abs. Mycroft was dizzy by the time he was hard again, sure that it was due to prolonged periods of time with all the blood in his body rushing south. 

“Get me ready?” Greg rumbled against Mycroft’s lips. 

Mycroft must have entered some manner of dream state, because he hardly remembered making the decision to finger Greg until he begged. That was in fact what he did, however, and they were both sweating and shaking by the time Greg lowered himself slowly down, taking Mycroft’s cock in tiny rocking movements, his bright eyes wide and trained on Mycroft’s with every shivering breath. 

“So good,” Greg gasped, one hand braced on Mycroft’s shoulder for leverage. “Fuck, fuck,  _ yeah.”  _

Mycroft touched him everywhere, suddenly greedy for skin. He rarely found himself in this position, accustomed both to receiving and on having his face pointed away from his partner - on his knees, on his side, shoved unceremoniously up against his dresser to be taken quick and rough before whoever he’d picked up zipped his jeans and made his halfhearted goodbyes. 

And while all of that was perfectly fine and quite fun, this… this was something else. 

“Slower,” Mycroft heard himself breathe. 

“Yeah?”

“Mmph, please.”

“Anything,” Greg murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him, the change in angle making both of them groan. “Oh, fuck, baby, anything you want.”

Mycroft’s hands found their way to Greg’s hips to guide him, a slow, dirty grind instead of a bouncing ride. “Can you come like this?”

“Sooner or later, yeah.”

“I want that. Come all over me.” Mycroft said it more softly and  _ far  _ more breathlessly than was actually acceptable, but Greg shivered over him and nodded, then kissed him again - and results were what mattered, in the end. 

Greg did come all over Mycroft’s chest, his rolling hips moving faster and rougher along with his breath. His fingers laced with Mycroft’s, pinning Mycroft’s hands to the pillows. He came untouched, which not even  _ Mycroft _ could do, and it was the clench and tremble of his body as he did it that brought Mycroft over the edge for a second time. 

  
  


*

  
  


This much kissing was highly irregular, but Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to stop it. He was covered in rapidly cooling semen and it was getting all over Greg, too. 

“We can shower,” Greg murmured in reply to Mycroft’s half-hearted concerns. “Look at this lip. Jesus Christ, m’gonna bite it. Just one more time.”

Mycroft laughed and winced at the graceless nip. “Ouch,” he protested without heat. “I think perhaps you have put my lips out of commission for the time being.”

“Sorry,” said Greg. “Can’t seem to resist them.”

“You’re very charming.” Mycroft wriggled back far enough to get a decent look at Greg’s face, hoping to read his reactions. “Has anyone ever said?”

“The nuns at school always said so.” Greg grinned at him. “I’m not trying to be. I mean what I say.”

“Nuns.” Mycroft raised both eyebrows. “Nuns?”

“All-boys Catholic college.” Greg winked. “It’s about as fun as it sounds.”

“My, my.” 

“It  _ wasn’t  _ any fun. But I know your type have all sorts of naughty fantasies about what we get up to in the confessional or whatever it is.”

“My type?”

“You know.” Greg winked. “The repressed upper class.”

Mycroft barked a laugh and rolled, surprising himself by sprawling over Greg’s body and smearing tacky come between them. “Do I seem repressed?”

Greg paused, seeming to examine Mycroft for the answer. “No,” he said eventually. “You seem… surprised.”

“Surprised.”

“Yeah.” Greg swiped a thumb across Mycroft’s sore, swollen lower lip. “I was right before, when I said you were the wham-bam type, huh?”

“That’s how it works.”

“I guess it would, most of the time, if you’re in the habit of picking up blokes that look and talk like me at places like that.”

“And if I’m in the habit?”

Greg rolled his eyes and smiled. “Calm down, gorgeous, don’t get all sniffy now. I don’t care if you’ve fucked every lucky rough bastard in all of London, believe me.” 

“Good.” Mycroft rolled onto his back again. “Because I very nearly have, I think.” 

Suddenly he was quite finished with this line of discussion. 

“I’m going to shower off all of this,” he said. “You are welcome to come along.”

“I am, am I?” Greg leaned up on his elbows to watch Mycroft climb out of bed “Not gonna kick me out?”

“You’re covered in bodily fluids,” Mycroft replied lightly. “That would be rude. Anyway, the bath is over here.”

  
  


*

  
  


“Wanna go again?”

Mycroft thought for a moment that he was serious. It took him a moment to register the teasing glint in Greg’s eyes. He rolled his own and snorted. “If you want to chafe something, by all means.”

“Well I only finished the once,” said Greg reasonably. “Gonna kick me out yet?”

Mycroft shot him an unimpressed look across the width of the bed, tugging down the duvet. “Get in the bed.”

“Oh, I get to  _ stay?” _

“If you like,” Mycroft said, shoving aside the clamor of thoughts that came along with it. He didn’t do sleepovers with utter strangers. 

Greg placed a knee on the bed and leaned halfway across it. “Do we have to go straight to sleep? Got places to be in the morning?”

“No on both counts,” Mycroft said, and leaned forward as well. He let his eyes flick down to Greg’s attractive mouth just in time to watch him lick his lips. “God, you really are  _ striking.” _

“Now, striking,” Greg murmured, bringing his lips closer to Mycroft’s, “that’s a new one.”

“I find that surprising,” said Mycroft, and kissed him. It was much sweeter than he’d meant it to be. “You’re right,” he said when they moved apart. “You did only finish the once. Lie back.”

  
  


*

  
  


In the morning, Mycroft woke and took stock of himself before opening his eyes. His body felt absurdly good. Relaxed. Well tended to. His mouth tasted appalling, however, and he would need to rectify that before the man sleeping beside him woke and did something ridiculous like try to kiss him. 

Mycroft cleaned his teeth and used his fingers to make his hair look less ridiculous, then found himself a bit stuck at the mirror, contemplating the stubble burn along his throat and the chapped skin of his lips. 

“Lord,” he muttered. 

What a mess this had turned out to be. What was he meant to do now? Would they spend the day together? In Mycroft’s experience, such a thing couldn’t go or end well. It would take all of an hour for Greg - affable, normal, easy Greg, the closeted cop - to realize he had fucked the most uptight poof in all of England. That, or he would remember he didn’t fuck poofs at all anymore (or on odd days or when he could remember it the following day, or whatever the excuse turned out to be; Mycroft had heard them all). With the vodka and the magic worn off, things would get very awkward very quickly. 

Mycroft sighed at himself. Best to simply… get through it. He turned to go back into the bedroom, and paused, considering the dressing gown hanging on the hook on the door. 

Well, there was no need not to have fun with things, was there?

  
  


*

  
  


“Hey,” said a deep, sleep-rasped voice from the bed just as Mycroft finished smoothing a little rose salve over his dry lips. 

Mycroft paused. It was dim in the room, and he could just barely make out Greg’s face blinking into the scant light. He stepped away from his wardrobe, dropping the lip balm back into his travel shaving kit. “Hello.”

“Y’should come over here,” Greg drawled, voice syrupy with sleep. “It’s early.”

“I was planning on making coffee.”

Greg shifted up onto his elbows. “Later,” he said. “Come closer, gorgeous. I can barely see you.”

Mycroft tightened the sash of his dressing gown and did. 

_ In for a penny, _ he thought wryly, preparing himself for whatever reaction the fall of silk over his body would elicit. 

“Holy fuck,” Greg groaned, and reached out a hand. “What are you  _ wearing?” _

“A kimono,” Mycroft murmured, taken aback by the seeking fingers. He moved closer and let Greg catch the fringed end of the sash. “I bought it in Tokyo.”

“Fuck,” Greg said. He tugged on the sash. “It’s so pretty.”

Mycroft felt himself flush as if he had just been told that  _ he _ was ‘so pretty,’ and he only flushed more at the realization. “You don’t find it prissy?”

This earned him a slow grin from the pillows. “Yeah, of course it’s prissy. Is that bad?” Greg tugged the sash again. “Will you come here?”

Mycroft swallowed, unsure why he suddenly felt so nervous, and stepped closer as Greg sat up in bed. 

“Closer.”

Mycroft moved into Greg’s waiting hands and was surprised when his hips were cupped gently over the slick silk of the dressing gown. 

“It’s a good color on you,” Greg murmured. “Makes your skin look even prettier.” He trailed a blunt finger up the eggshell colored lapels of the dressing gown, tracing a line along the ‘v’ of Mycroft’s bared chest. “You look… expensive.”

“I  _ am _ expensive,” Mycroft teased, missing haughty by a mile and letting the words escape wryly instead. 

“I’ll just bet,” Greg said quietly. He rubbed the pale, silvery pink fabric of the kimono between his fingers. “Did you think I would run screaming because of this?”

“Maybe.”

“Why do you think I’m like that? I try not to be a complete stereotype. You’ve got me worried I’ve totally failed on that front.” Greg leaned forward and pressed his mouth sweetly to Mycroft’s breastbone. “Do you wish I was? Were you looking for that sort of bloke last night?”

“It’s not a question of looking,” said Mycroft. He threaded the fingers of one hand through Greg’s bedhead, tilting his head back so their eyes could meet. “I like what I like, and they usually… don’t, or can’t, admit that they like what they do. Me. Men in general. Men who like to wear pink silk round the house just because they can. Whatever it is they can’t live with.” 

“Mm.” Greg took all of this in with serious eyes, listening carefully with a tiny line of tension between his eyebrows. “I don’t have a problem with the fact that you’re a man.”

“Alright.”

“Or that you’re… expensive.”

Mycroft huffed. “Yes, alright.”

“And,” Greg untied the sash of the dressing gown at last and let the ends fall away, the sides of the robe slipping open for his searching hands. “Pink silk… what’s not to like?”

“Do  _ not _ get come all over this,” Mycroft warned as Greg’s hand stroked him gently. “I mean it.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Greg murmured. “Gonna fuck you while you wear it. Mm?” 

“Christ.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, you can. Do it.” 

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft was once again surprised. Maybe he should have thrown away his expectations at that stage of proceedings. He’d fully prepared himself mentally for the inevitability of being shoved onto his knees and fucked mercilessly with the silk of the dressing gown bunched up over his back. 

He wouldn’t have minded it at all. 

But it’s not what happened. Instead, he found himself laid out, propped up against a pile of pillows with the dressing gown spread open, his body naked between waterfalls of silk folds. Greg didn't reach for a condom or the lube right away. He spent a long while simply touching pieces of Mycroft with his hands, and then with his mouth. He moved slowly from this to nips and sucks, to experimental pinches and gentle scrapes of his blunt fingernails. 

Mycroft ended up shivering, shaking beyond his own control as his skin prickled to life under the attention. 

“Fucking precious,” Greg whispered against Mycroft’s freshly-pinched nipple. He tasted it and sighed. “You’re so soft and lovely.” 

“Well.” Mycroft blinked down at the top of his head. “I…”

“It’s a compliment,” Greg supplied without looking up. He traced the notches between Mycroft’s ribs with his lips, his fingers worrying at the silk just beside. “I love soft things.”

Mycroft could only shudder and shift, parting his thighs hopefully as Greg worked his way downwards. 

“And… well, some hard things,” he joked, then closed his mouth obligingly over the side of Mycroft’s shaft. He did it with a contented sigh and a sharp inhale, as if the act of pressing the flat of his tongue to the vein running down Mycroft’s cock was the best thing to happen to him all morning. 

Maybe it was. 

Mycroft’s fingers shook against Greg’s skin, tracing absently along his cheek, his hairline, raking back into his hair. “That’s good,” he said, and Greg’s eyes flicked up just as he closed his lips decisively around the head of his cock, his rough fingers gentle with the foreskin.  _ “God.”  _ Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “It’s good.”

Greg licked and sucked in answer, his hands bringing the dressing gown up in fistfuls, rubbing the slick fabric over the insides of Mycroft’s thighs, his hips. Greg tilted his cheek against the silk as he sucked, and when Mycroft opened his eyes Greg’s were right there waiting for him, dark and aroused and just a little amused. 

“I thought you were going to—”

Greg rolled his eyes and took him deeper, the opening of his throat fluttering when Mycroft’s cock nudged against it. He swallowed. 

“Alright,” Mycroft acquiesced, trembling all over and struggling to keep his hips still. “I apologize. Carry… carry on.” 

Greg rumbled a laugh, and the vibrations were  _ excellent,  _ as was the swirl of his tongue and the clever tease of his fingers over the rest of Mycroft’s body, both covered and uncovered by Japanese silk. Mycroft gave himself over and melted into it, into the fabric and the softness of his mattress, and into the haze of aimless pleasure that Greg was apparently extremely adept at causing. 

Eventually Greg hitched Mycroft’s legs up and held him spread open for his tongue, and then for his lube-slick fingers. Mycroft was, by then, barely cognizant of what he must look like. He was unable to spare a thought as to whether this entire thing wasn’t rather ill-advised. By the time Greg rolled on a condom and nudged the slick head of his cock against Mycroft’s softened hole, Mycroft could only gasp and beg, mindless and desperate. 

“Shh,” Greg hushed him. “Jesus, if you talk like that I’m gonna come before I even— Mm, god, you’re so—  _ ah—”  _

Mycroft wrapped his legs around him, tried to pull him in further, faster. He grasped at Greg’s hips with his hands and insisted he wasn’t so fragile, until Greg caught up both wrists, twisting the loose silk of the dressing gown sleeves tight, and held them to the bed like he had the night before. 

“So impatient,” Greg chided, even as he pressed ever forward, unhesitating and steady. “Mm? You’re such a bossy, pretty thing, aren’t you?”

“Will you  _ just—”  _

Greg thrust, shallow but sharp all the same, stealing the next words out of Mycroft’s mouth. “Just? What? Just what?” 

Mycroft struggled, trying to close his gasping mouth, trying to force out sound. But a series of those ruthless shoves in and out kept him silent, shocked with the stretch and the zing of it. 

Greg’s hands swept the silk of the dressing gown back and away from Mycroft’s wrists and forearms so he could scrape his nails down the soft skin of the undersides of his arms. “Keep them like this.” He left Mycroft’s arms there, wrists by his ears, needing his hands to fold Mycroft nearly in half, knees nearly to his shoulders. His hips moved more fluidly, a sinuous roll as he leaned in and kissed Mycroft first on his panting mouth, then the underside of his jaw, the side of his throat. He shoved the dressing gown aside to get at more of Mycroft’s skin. 

Mycroft lost the thread, but eventually he found himself with a fistful of Greg’s hair and a handful of sheets, the silk robe hanging half off him and all sorts of filthy things spilling from Greg’s mouth into his ear. 

“Don’t come,” Greg ordered. “It’ll ruin your lovely robe, darling, don’t.”

Mycroft sobbed.    


“Come in my mouth,” Greg said. “You want that? I’d love it.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so close.” Greg’s fingers tightened around Mycroft’s thigh, the leg held up over his shoulder. “So close, baby.”

“Just—” Mycroft gasped. “Just do it.” 

Greg groaned and pinned him more fully to the mattress, held Mycroft’s hips just the way he wanted them, and fucked him harder, faster, no finesse anymore but still unbearably good. They breathed hot and heavy against each other, and then Greg stuttered, his entire body freezing and jerking, Mycroft clutched at him, fingers sliding in sweat. He guided Greg’s lips to his own and kissed him through it, squeezing with his thighs and arms and hands as Greg came near-silently, save for the quiet moans escaping as he tried to breathe. 

He trembled when he was done, which Mycroft had noticed the night before. 

He was still trembling when he used a shaking hand to guide Mycroft’s cock into his mouth. Mycroft could feel the aftershocks even in the movements of his tongue. 

It didn’t take long. 

“Don’t swallow,” Mycroft gasped, and hauled Greg up by the hair. “Kiss me.”

Greg’s eyes were wide and hot, and his chest rumbled as he did as Mycroft asked, kissing him messy and filthy, come smearing between their lips. Greg held his face still with tremoring hands as he licked every drop off of Mycroft’s chin, away from the corners of his mouth. His fingers shook through Mycroft’s hair and he kissed him so sweetly, a complete juxtaposition to what they had just done. 

“That might have been…” Greg cleared the rasp from his throat and buried his face close to Mycroft’s neck. “I don’t think it’s ever been that fucking good before. You’re so hot.” 

Mycroft laughed, breathless and a little strangled. “I’m sorry?” 

“You shouldn’t be giving it up for those tossers who just want to fuck ‘n run,” Greg continued. “You’re wasted on them.”

“Oh, but not on you?” Mycroft teased, rolling his eyes. 

“No,” Greg murmured against his throat. “Not on me, gorgeous. I could stay here, do this all day. Treat you like… like you deserve.”

Mycroft swallowed. “And what do you suppose I deserve?”

Greg’s lips curved against his skin in a smile, and he chuckled a bit, nipping at the hinge of Mycroft’s jaw. “Attention,” he said in a whisper. “Spoiling. Fun.” He leaned over Mycroft on his elbows and nudged their noses together playfully.  _ “Worship,  _ maybe.”

“Worship,” Mycroft echoed, disbelieving. 

“Oh, yeah.” Greg kissed him slowly. “Definitely.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “You really aren’t… you are quite different from what I’m used to.”

“Don’t like it?”

Mycroft huffed. He couldn’t answer that. He let the moment pass, then squirmed a bit until Greg let him sit up in bed. “Alas,” Mycroft said, aiming for casual. “I can’t stay in bed to be worshipped all day lovely as that does sound.”

Greg watched him rise from the ruined sheets, his eyes following Mycroft impassively. “Things to do this afternoon?”

Mycroft gave a noncommittal hum, shrugging out of the dressing gown on his way into the bathroom. “I may need to go into the office.”

“Ah, you’re a workaholic type, then,” Greg called after him. “I’m not surprised.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and didn’t bother responding. He turned on the shower and wondered if Greg would be gone when he emerged. 


	2. Who wants to live in trouble and strife

The bedroom was empty, and Mycroft dressed without allowing himself to wonder if he was disappointed or surprised by that. 

He  _ was  _ surprised to find Greg in his kitchen, dressed and drinking a glass of water. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, indicating the glass. “I promise I didn’t have to dig through your cupboards much to find this.”

“I don’t mind,” Mycroft replied, a bit numb. “I— I thought you had gone.”

Greg smirked into his glass and drained the last of the water from it. “I know you want me to go,” he said. “I get it, it’s fine. But. I wrote my number. Just there.”

Mycroft followed Greg’s nod to the pad of paper beside the kitchen phone. “Oh.”

“You could call me.” Greg set the glass beside the sink. “I’d be happy to get a drink with you sometime. Or… maybe dinner, if you do that sort of thing.”

“What, eat?”

“Go on dates.”

Mycroft could only blink at this. He shrugged. “Perhaps.” 

“Alright, then.” Greg nodded. “Am I allowed to kiss you goodbye?”

Mycroft’s chest felt tight with… something. Regret. Shame. Confusion. Fear. Whatever it was, it made him feel reckless and a little defiant. He crossed the small kitchen in two strides, already reaching out. 

Greg came willingly, easily, and  _ gently,  _ not allowing Mycroft to brazen through the kiss, to crash their mouths together in order to refute the suggestion that he wouldn’t have  _ allowed  _ it. Greg held himself back, drew away until Mycroft slowed and calmed, and then he kissed Mycroft thoroughly, carefully, and…  _ passionately.  _ As if they were still naked, still post-orgasm in the faded light of the bedroom. 

“Thank you for a great night,” Greg said in his low, slightly rough voice. “Please call me, if you like.”

Mycroft nodded, and unknotted his fingers from Greg’s t-shirt. “Alright.”

“Bye, Mycroft.” 

“Goodbye.” 

Greg dropped a peck of a kiss to his cheek, and stepped away. 

Mycroft forgot his manners entirely, and failed to see him to the door. 

  
  


*

  
  


It sustained him - and distracted him - for over a week. And then Richard Taylor and his wife announced the birth of their first child in the Friday paper’s society pages. 

Mycroft only wished he hadn’t been at lunch with Alicia when he spotted it. He had years of training on which to call in the moment in order to keep his face under control. He bit the side of his tongue and let his eyes skim down the page as if he hadn’t just spotted, in black and white, the face of the first man he’d ever— 

When he glanced, casually, up from the paper, Alicia was watching him. Mycroft would say this for her: at least she had the decency to keep the pity out of her eyes. 

“I expected it, sooner or later,” he said, telling himself that it was the only acknowledgment he would make of Richard and…  _ Penelope… _ and their offspring. 

“It wasn’t right, the way he treated you,” Alicia said quietly, aiming it at her salad instead of at Mycroft. “I hope you take comfort in the knowledge that he will never be happy. Not truly.”

Mycroft bit the side of his tongue again, harder this time, and shook his head as he turned the page. “That’s the problem,” he told her. “I don’t. Not at all.”

  
  


*

  
  


He stood in the kitchen and stared at the neatly printed numbers positioned under a scrawled ‘Greg.’ The author had taken his time on the digits, making sure Mycroft would be able to make them out, but he clearly had a naturally messy penmanship. 

If Mycroft called the number, what would he say? 

_ Fancy a fuck? My ex married a woman the day after he promised me he wouldn’t and now they’ve gone and produced an heir, please make me forget all about it. Kiss me like you did last time and maybe I really won’t care about Richard.  _

It was too pathetic to be tolerated. 

But, he felt, so would a night out attempting to pick up in this state. 

Mycroft wasn’t desperate. Needy, maybe. Tired. Furious. Saddened. 

Empty. 

_ I don’t care, _ he told himself.  _ I don’t. _

He picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. 

  
  


*

  
  


Kenneth met him at the door with a slow smirk that, once upon a time, had made Mycroft weak in the knees. 

“Suppose you saw, then,” he said, eyes sharp on Mycroft’s carefully arranged expression. 

“Just shut up,” Mycroft hissed, and shoved Kenneth toward the bedroom. “Don’t fucking speak until I tell you to.”

“Oh, good,” Kenneth said in a low, anticipatory purr. “I was hoping it would be like this tonight. You always overcompensate when you’re—”

Mycroft shut him up with his tongue, and later with his cock, and later with a fistful of sheets shoved hastily into Kenneth’s rambling mouth. 

Mycroft left still covered in half-cooled sweat, his shirt untucked and a cigarette shaking between his fingers while he waited for his taxi. 

He didn’t feel good, or relaxed, and certainly not well tended to. 

But he felt. Something. A twinge in his thighs and a sense-memory of forceful motion in his hands and arms. He felt the echoes of how he’d taken Kenneth apart, how he’d stopped his haughty stream of words in the only way he’d ever managed to do it, even when they were…

Together. Whatever they had been. Whatever Mycroft had  _ thought _ they had been.

This worked better. This was convenient. Mycroft could access Kenneth whenever he wanted something that no stranger could provide. Kenneth knew how Mycroft liked it, and when he liked it a certain way. And he accommodated him accordingly. 

That was preferable to being alone and frustrated, any day. 

Mycroft finished his cigarette and leaned against the building with a sigh. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. He was tempted to walk into a club like this, red around the throat, flushed up to his hairline, clothes a wreck and every inch of him reeking of sex. 

He wondered what would happen if he did. 

When the taxi arrived, he asked the driver to take him home. 

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft kept his head down and told himself that living as a monk would be more sensible than doing something so ill-advised as fucking  _ Kenneth.  _ Again. 

He worked late, woke early, ran his fastest 5K yet in the gym, eschewed sweets, and revisited the idea of getting a dog. 

Then he decided that extremes truly weren’t the answer to any problem, and took himself to the club on a Friday night - convincing himself that he wasn’t trying to recreate the success of the last time he’d done so. It was a mistake to do it, and he knew that even as he got ready to leave his flat. 

He felt… raw. From all of this. From liking someone he fucked, despite his certainty that he was no longer capable. From Richard and his beautiful family. From Kenneth and his smirking accommodation. Even from Alicia and her sympathy. 

That was a less-than-ideal condition in which to immerse himself in a crowd. He arrived at the club at half-past eleven, and by midnight was catching his breath with his forehead pressed to the cool brick exterior. Any passersby would assume he was drunk, but in fact Mycroft was at his most sober, and his most tired. 

Too many people, too many lights, and too many thoughts that he couldn’t catch, slipping between his fingers. 

A hand touched his back. “Hey, you.”

Mycroft did not jump. He glanced out of the corners of his eyes, tilting his sweaty forehead against the rough brick. “Hello.”

_ What are you doing here? _

“You doing alright?”

_ No. _

“Just… overheated.” Mycroft took a step away from the wall, conveniently moving into the touch of Greg’s broad palm. He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Need a moment.”

“You do look flushed.” Greg stepped close. “Want to go inside and get some water?”

“No!” Mycroft winced as his tone visibly startled Greg with its vehemence. He made an effort to quiet his voice. “I apologize, but… no. I don’t think I’ll go back in.”

“Fair enough. Want to take a walk with me, find a place to get something cool to drink?”

Mycroft hesitated. “I…” 

“Come on.” 

And suddenly Mycroft’s hand was in Greg’s and he was being tugged along, down the pavement. 

Greg let go of his hand once Mycroft started to move forward under his own steam. “I’m not trying to be too touchy, sorry,” he said. “You just look like you need a minute, and maybe a friend.”

“A friend,” Mycroft echoed drily, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Mmhmm.” Greg grinned at him sideways. “I think we can say we’re friendly, considering.” 

“You don’t know me at all.” 

“I’d like to.”

_ “Why?” _

Greg turned easily on his heel, moving gracefully into a backwards stride so that he could meet Mycroft head on. He slid into Mycroft’s path, blocking him and stopping him when he stopped himself. “Why not?”

“I—” 

“You’re really sexy, for one.” Greg’s grin only grew wider at Mycroft’s dismayed huff. “You were evasive as all hell when we met, which I think is interesting. I’m a detective— or, well, I’m going to be. I like puzzles. You could be one, maybe.”

“Well, how  _ fun _ that would be for you,” Mycroft managed, feeling himself flush. He moved to get around Greg but found himself stopped with a gentle hand to his elbow. 

“Wait,” Greg said. “Stop. I also had a great time with you that night. And I’m… I’m interested in a repeat. Why didn’t you call me?”

Mycroft subsided in his effort to circumvent Greg and - what? Scuttle down the street in search of a taxi? A phonebox? He rocked his weight back onto his heels and crossed his arms, knowing he probably looked defensive and sulky, and not at all intimidating to the man who had just discovered him sliding downhill into a panic attack outside of a gay discoteque. 

“I’ve been busy,” he said eventually, not meeting Greg’s eyes. 

“Well that’s fine if you were,” Greg said reasonably. “But you know it’s bad form, don’t you? Not calling after that? Christ, the last girl I did that to—”

“Ah,” Mycroft interrupted. “There it is.” He rolled his eyes and dropped his arms to his side. He made a show of turning on his heel. 

“There what is?” Greg jogged to catch up a moment later. “Hey!”

“You’re  _ straight.” _

Beside him, Greg scoffed. “I’m  _ not.” _

Mycroft shot him his most unimpressed glare, not bothering to turn his head. “Please.”

“Hey—” Greg stopped him with his arm and stepped in front of him again. “Just because I like women doesn't make me straight. What, you thought when I had your cock down my throat I was  _ straight?” _

This was ridiculous. “Of course I did,” Mycroft snapped. “Just  _ look  _ at you!”

“Wow.” Greg laughed. “That’s offensive.”

“Oh, please.”

“Mycroft—”

“Listen to me,” Mycroft interrupted, desperate to be finished with this entire humiliating scene. “I’m not interested.”

“You seemed interested before. And you made out like you’re  _ into _ blokes like me.”

Mycroft shifted, hating everything about this man and his earnest dark eyes and placating hands. “I am,” he admitted, then muttered, “But not…  _ They’re _ honest about it. There is no pretense. They leave my flat and it’s over, and someday they marry some woman or other and have lots and lots of fat, happy babies, and I’ll never know about it. And I prefer it that way.”

Greg sighed. “God, you’re a  _ mess, _ aren’t you?”

“Thank you,” said Mycroft coldly. “Now may I leave? Unless you’re angling for another round of casual sex, in which case,  _ fine.  _ I’m up for it. I’m  _ always _ up for it. But that’s… that’s all. And I  _ won’t  _ call.”

Greg’s eyebrows were nearly meeting his hairline now. He shook his head. “Jesus.” 

“We had an enjoyable time together,” Mycroft said stiffly. “Thank you for that. Have a lovely—”

Greg caught him by the wrist. “Shut up,” he said gently. “I’m not trying to… I’m not  _ angling.  _ I was going to see if you wanted to maybe go out sometime, first.”

Ridiculous. Mycroft opened his mouth to say as much. 

“Just—” Greg leaned in and pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s, quieting his protest.    
  


Mycroft tried not to gasp, and failed. The kiss was soft and chaste for all of three seconds before Greg moved fully into Mycroft’s space, arms slipping around his waist, and it went hot as naturally and easily as it had been weeks ago. Mycroft failed to contain his shiver, as well.

Greg pulled away sooner than Mycroft wanted, came back for one last peck - then another, longer - and then took a large step back. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Damn,” he said, nodding to himself. “Yeah, that’s— really good. Right. I’m not doing that again.”

“What?”

“Kissing you.” Greg nodded again, decisively this time. “Look - Mycroft - I… I like you. It  _ was  _ great last time, and… and I want to do it again. I  _ really,  _ really do. But I just. Like I told you, I hadn’t been in a club like that for  _ years _ before that night. I hadn’t realized how much I missed all of it. I like women, women are… sorry to utterly disgust you, but they’re  _ great.  _ But it’s… When I was younger, when I was a new cop, I had to sort of lie low. It would’ve been more trouble than I could handle, trying to be with men while I—” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Sorry, you don’t need to hear all this. My point is, I miss being around people who are  _ like me. _ And I dunno, maybe you’re not, quite. You’re dead convinced I’m straight, for one.”

Mycroft tried to stutter out an apology, but he was frozen by the sincerity. By the kiss, still. And by the strange feeling in his chest, the urge to be  _ comforting _ in some way. 

“It’s fine,” Greg said gently. “I get it. I sort of get the impression that maybe you’ve been burned before. I know how that feels. But I won’t let myself get burned, either. I don’t actually like casual sex, as a concept. It’s not really my  _ thing.  _ I know that if I try to do that with someone I like, and they don’t feel the same, or don’t want more than something casual… it’s not a good feeling. I’m not particularly interested in it. I  _ would _ be interested in a… friend. Someone who isn’t a straight copper, I mean. I don’t have any friends that aren’t that.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. “You want to be  _ friends?” _

“Well, why not?”

He still couldn’t find the words. He didn’t have a good answer. 

“Unless you’re full up on friends,” Greg continued. “Suppose you could be.”

“I’m not.” Mycroft could have literally bitten his tongue. He winced. “I… have friends. Acquaintances, mostly. But oddly enough… While my friends aren’t policemen they are… straight. Or at least, closeted to the point of near-suffocation. And…” He sighed. “And I’ve slept with all of them, with the exception of one woman. I  _ have  _ kissed her, however.”

Greg laughed, his head tipping back attractively, exposing his lovely, tanned throat. Mycroft looked away. 

“Well you’ve slept with me, too,” Greg said. “Is that a problem?”

_ No,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ Because strangely enough,  _ you _ appear to still respect me.  _

He shrugged. “I suppose it isn’t a problem.”

Greg grinned. “Great. Come on, let's go find that drink. Maybe coffee?”

“I— Really?”

“Yeah.” Greg took a backward step. “Come on.”

Mycroft hesitated - but he followed. 

  
  


*

  
  


Greg demanded Mycroft’s number before they parted that night. 

“You’re clearly not to be trusted with the responsibility of calling,” he said, a pen poised over his palm. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but gave it to him. 

Greg called three days later, late on Monday night. 

“Sorry it’s so late,” he said, sounding tired. 

“I only just got in,” Mycroft said, sitting down beside the phone, briefcase still in hand. “Are you quite alright?”

“Long day,” Greg replied. “You’re just getting in? It’s nearly nine.” 

“I work odd hours.”

“Yeah, me too.” Greg sighed heavily. “I’m technically still on duty, but I needed a shower. Foot chase in the muck. I’m a disaster. I’ll go back out if they need me, but…”

“Did you apprehend the person you were chasing?”

“No.” The word was bitter. “No, I didn’t.”

“Next time,” Mycroft said, hoping it sounded reassuring. He assumed that was the reason for Greg’s call. It seemed like the sort of thing friends did. Though Mycroft thought it a bit odd, considering Greg did have friends who would better understand the stresses of his job. 

“Yeah, next time.” Greg made a sound of discomfort. “Sorry, my shoulder’s killing me, just trying to get comfortable. You know, the thing about fucking up on a case is that it never stops feeling like shit. I’ll worry that the fact I didn’t nab this guy led to someone getting hurt. I’ll worry for  _ years,  _ probably. And then, just as a bonus, I always wonder if this time’ll be the one where the hammer comes down. It’s bad enough to fuck up. Fuck up as a… when you’re like me, if the wrong person knows - which a few people do - suddenly it’s not because you were wrong, or not paying attention, or whatever. It’s because you’re just. Wrong for the job. Wrong, full stop.” He sighed. “Sorry.”

“No,” Mycroft said. He was surprised. It wasn’t that he had never thought that anyone else worried about such things. Of course they did. It was just that no one had ever…  _ said _ anything about it to him. He didn’t talk about such things with anyone. Who would he talk to? “No, don’t be sorry. I completely understand, obviously. I worry about the same things.”

“What do you do, Mycroft?”

“I’m a civil servant. I work in a boring government office.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“You seem like… you seem more… Well, just  _ more.  _ How does a posh thing like you end up in some cubicle farm?”

Mycroft allowed himself a smile. “I have my own office.”

“Civil servant my arse. You’re too sly for that.”

“Believe me, I’m just sly  _ enough.”  _ Mycroft leant back in his seat, tipping his head against the wall behind him. “Who knows about you at work?”

“My sergeant knows. She’s… she’s alright. Had to fight tooth and nail for what respect she’s got, and while I wouldn’t put her at the next pride march… she isn’t a bigot. My closest mate, Gregson, he knows. Inadvisable supply closet thing back when we were rookies. Holiday party. Tequila. He’s  _ very  _ straight. I misread. Don’t ask.” 

“Well I apologize, but I  _ must  _ ask.” Mycroft let his eyes drift shut. “Tell me everything. Leave nothing out.”

And, to the sound of Greg’s wry chuckle and a truly tragic tale of unrequited queer adoration, margaritas, and mixed signals, he relaxed. Possibly for the first time in years. 

  
  


*

  
  


Having Greg for a friend was interesting. 

Mycroft stuck to his usual routines. He worked too much. He ate too little. He had Friday lunch with Alicia. He often overindulged in sweets and wine, but now he did so with a telephone pressed to his ear, late into the night and at odd hours of the morning. 

He went to his parents’ house for tea on the third Saturday of the month. 

“It was awful,” he groaned to Greg before the man had even said “hello” when Mycroft called that night. “With Sherlock at University, the woman is  _ adrift!  _ My father must convince her to turn her attentions elsewhere, or I don’t know what will become of us all. She’s talking about redecorating my flat, now that she’s finished their guestroom.  _ I shudder to think what she might do.” _

Greg laughed at him, told him he had to go - he had a date - and hung up. 

Mycroft blinked at the phone. A  _ date? _

It was after that that Mycroft realized he had let some things fall to the wayside. For weeks now, he had spoken with Greg on the phone most Friday and Saturday nights, and many other mornings and afternoons, when he could. Greg had Mycroft’s work number now. 

What Mycroft had not done since the ill-advised  _ slip-up _ with Kenneth, was attempt to get laid. 

He’d thought about it, or at least had considered his options. Some consideration had led him to cement his decision to call Marcus a lost cause. Mycroft had run into him twice now, and while it didn’t phase Mycroft one bit to interact casually, socially, with people he’d slept with, Marcus clearly didn’t have the same skill. That was fine - most people didn’t - but Marcus’ stammering stiffness and his averted eyes had made it abundantly clear that he, too, had decided that their undefined arrangement had come to a definitive end. 

Mycroft told himself that he needed to cleanse his palate after Kenneth - ignoring the fact that it had been nearly a month already, and he hadn’t thought of that particular posh twat in weeks - and took himself out. 

It was done before midnight. Mycroft lit a cigarette out his bedroom window and watched as - Paul? Peter? P… something? - fished his clothes off the floor. 

“Have a lovely evening,” Mycroft drawled, watching him go. 

“Er… yeah. Thanks,” P-something muttered, and was gone. 

Mycroft shifted and winced. The ache would fade enough so as to be pleasant by morning, but for now he felt a bit abraded and over-used. He nearly fell off the bench beneath the window reaching for the telephone on the table by his bed. 

Greg worked the second shift on Wednesdays. He would have just gotten in. Mycroft dialed. 

“Well, well, well,” Greg drawled. “You pull?”

Mycroft laughed and shook another cigarette out of the pack. “Of course I did. How was your night?”

  
  


*

  
  


“You could have just said you hate football,” Greg told Mycroft, passing him a bottle of lager. “And beer.”

“I don’t hate beer,” Mycroft protested. “I just… lost the taste for it. I suppose. It’s  _ fine.” _

“And the football?”

“You seemed excited about it.”

Greg’s television blared in the background. He slid his eyes toward it. “Do you understand the rules?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “They kick the ball into a net, a man tries to prevent that. The end?”

Greg plopped down beside him on the sofa. “Oh, Mycroft. It’s so much more than that. Allow me to educate you.”

Mycroft didn’t care about football, and that didn’t change. But Greg was amusing as he explained it, and he was very attractive after celebrating a goal, sighing in satisfaction as he sat back down from an excited leap up to shout at the screen. He shook his hair out of his face and held out his bottle to clink with Mycroft’s. 

All in all, not a wasted evening.

  
  


*

  
“Are you seeing someone?”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, pausing with his fork halfway to his lips. “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Across the table, Alicia considered him over the rim of her water glass. “You seem… happy.”

“I am perfectly content,” Mycroft agreed. “As usual.”

“Hmm.” She sipped and then set down the glass. “Forgive me, I forgot what a happy-go-lucky sort you are. Come on, Holmes, who is it? Are you finally settling down? I haven’t heard anything about the usual crowd, so where did you pick someone up?”

“I did not pick anyone up.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “In fact, I have been somewhat ascetic.” 

Alicia looked entirely unconvinced, and Mycroft would have taken it personally if it weren’t so understandable.

“For  _ me,” _ Mycroft clarified. It was true. Since the last anonymous bar hookup, more weeks had passed, and Mycroft had felt oddly unmotivated to repeat the performance. He was sure he would soon, but…

“Interesting,” Alicia murmured, then cleared her throat, dismissing the matter. “Michael wants to know if you’ll come to the polo next weekend. I won’t be there - I have better things to do - but you could use the sun, I think.”

He rolled his eyes at her again, and tamped down the childish urge to throw a cherry tomato in her face. “I can’t stand you,” he said.

“You love me.” She nudged his shin under the table. “So? You’ll go?”

  
  


*

  
  


“So,” Greg said, stretching himself out on the sofa behind Mycroft, who had slid to the floor somewhere around the third tumbler of rum. “Then there was Cynthia Alfred. She broke my heart. Shagged my best mate, who immediately had to stop being my best mate. Mostly because I wasn’t sure who I was more jealous of, and when I was sixteen my brain was too small to process it.”

“That’s a very sad story,” Mycroft slurred, tipping his head back onto the cushion by Greg’s hip. “And then what happened?”

“Then I went through a phase where I shagged anything that moved, seemed like. First it was a lot of girls, and then finally I figured out how badly I wanted to try sucking off a bloke. Suddenly my options were  _ very _ plentiful. I took advantage of that.” 

“And?”

“And, what?”

“Did you ever go back to serious dating?” 

Greg shifted a bit, jostling the cushion and therefore Mycroft. “Yeah, of course,” he said. “Since then I’ve dated a bit. Had a serious thing with a man, Ben, but he emigrated and I didn’t want to leave London. And then I lived with a girlfriend, Jeannie, for two years. She broke up with me because I wanted to get married and she didn’t.”

Mycroft twisted his neck to try and get a look at Greg’s face. He couldn’t, so he sat up and curled his body around. Greg shot him a smug look. “You think you’ve shocked me.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Did you really want to  _ marry  _ someone?”

Greg shrugged. “I was in love with her. We worked well together. What’s wrong with that?”

Mycroft blinked. “How does one know that it’s time to make it  _ lifelong? _ In my experience, it’s mostly a business decision.” 

“You hang out with amphibians, though,” Greg pointed out. “And I dunno, I guess you  _ don’t _ know. There’s always divorce. Even the royals do it, now.” 

Mycroft snorted. “How romantic.”

“It  _ is _ romantic,” Greg insisted. “It’s optimistic. Again, what’s wrong with that?”

Mycroft turned around again and sighed. “Nothing.”

Greg sighed back, and then Mycroft felt a gentle touch to the back of his neck. He forced himself not to go tense, and a moment later, Greg squeezed him gently there before massaging up into his scalp. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mycroft murmured, letting his head fall forward. He swallowed a groan as Gregs fingers worked their way back down and gently eased the tension out of the knob at the top of Mycroft’s spine. “Nothing.”

“Someone did something heartless to you. I know it.” Greg’s fingers gentled and he stroked softly with his palm, instead. “You could tell me about it.”

Mycroft moved carefully away from the touch. He glanced back over his shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Not tonight.”

“Alright,” Greg said. “Fair enough. You busy this weekend?”

Mycroft struggled to his feet and stretched. “Actually… have you ever been to a polo match?”

  
  


*

  
  


“Okay,” Greg said as they made their way through the thin crowd. “Remember how I said I looked like a complete twit?”

“I do remember,” Mycroft replied, biting the insides of his lips to contain his smile. 

“I actually look perfectly fine compared to some of these… blokes.”

Mycroft covered snort by clearing his throat. “Yes, well. I promised you that I would never dress you foolishly.”

“Sorry I didn’t believe you,” Greg murmured, following more closely behind him.    


“Thank you for humoring me,” Mycroft replied. “Come on, Michael’s just over here.”

In truth, the process of outfitting Greg for a polo match - from items Mycroft told him were from his own closet (they weren’t, but Greg needn’t know that Mycroft spent any money on it; it would only irritate him, and Mycroft wasn’t in the mood) - had been reward enough to soothe any sting that might have come from Greg’s skepticism and derision. The man’s body was built to carry off good clothes. Mycroft led him through the crowd and noticed people noticing them - noticing  _ Greg,  _ and felt oddly possessive and satisfied.

Mycroft had chosen simple, dove-grey slacks and a tucked-in white shirt with a subtle pale blue stripe. Over that, a blazer, a pocket square in the same pale blue, and a gorgeous tan leather belt. A pair of sunglasses and a watch from Mycroft’s collection had finished things off nicely. Greg looked delectable and  _ rich.  _ It was an interesting effect.

Greg had fretted that his shoes weren’t right, but Mycroft had been quite pleased with them - well-worn but high quality loafers. No socks. Perfect. 

_ “I feel like a Ken doll.” _

_ “You look like James Bond out for a picnic.” Mycroft had spent more time than was strictly necessary fixing the tuck of Greg’s shirt into his trousers. “You’re really… unfairly handsome.” _

_ “Yeah?” Greg had wiggled his eyebrows. “Think I’ll pull a polo player.” _

_ “Don’t you dare,” Mycroft snapped. “Unless you would get off on having my sloppy seconds. Believe me, I have been there and done that and none of them are all that impressive.” _

_ “I love how slaggy you are,” Greg had sighed, grinning. “Are you sure I look alright? Am I a total embarrassment?” _

_ It had stilled Mycroft’s hands where they were smoothing the lapels of the blazer. “I hope I’ve made it clear that I prefer you as you are,” he said, unsure of where he unearthed the sincerity. “Perhaps you could take me somewhere next time. I will submit to being costumed however you see fit.” _

_ Greg’s grin had softened. “I’m going to take you up on that,” he’d said.  _

_ Mycroft had needed a moment in the bathroom, splashing cool water on his face, to pull himself together - he couldn’t think what had gotten into him.  _

Now, they met up with Michael in the tent, and Mycroft made introductions with a serene placidness, refusing to indicate who Greg was or where he’d come from. He was simply Greg, and he belonged there, and he was to be welcomed. 

No one would have dared contradict the unspoken implications, and Greg didn’t seem to notice. He was rather busy being mercilessly flirted with by Michael’s sister, Sarah. 

“Friend of yours?” Michael checked, sotto voce. “Where’s this one from?”

“It’s not like that,” Mycroft murmured. He gratefully accepted a glass of chilled wine from one of the girls on Michael’s picnic blanket. He couldn’t recall her name, only knew that she was dating one of the players. Mycroft took a sip of wine to gather his wits. “We’re friends.”   


Michael cut him a sideways glance. “If you say so,” he said drily, and let it go, which Mycroft took to mean he’d be hearing from a viciously curious Alicia before the end of the weekend. 

“I do,” Mycroft replied with a bland smile. 

  
  
  


*

  
  


“Polo’s actually exciting,” Greg observed later, leaning on his forearms against the fence that ran around the pitch. “Horses are  _ huge,  _ who knew?”

“Had you… never seen a horse before?”

Greg laughed. “Not up close! I’m a city boy, remember?”

“Do you hate this?” Mycroft wondered anxiously. “Have I been torturing you with all this… grass?”

Greg laughed again and jostled their elbows together. “No,” he said. “Like I said, it’s exciting. Plus, you let me drive that gorgeous car of yours. Can’t believe you never mentioned it before.”

“I hate driving,” Mycroft said for the dozenth time that day. “It was a selfish offer, believe me.”

“Still.” Greg let out a happy sigh. “This has been a nice day. Thanks for bringing me.”

Mycroft turned to lean sideways against the fence, opening his mouth to suggest staying out of London for dinner, but the words dried in his throat as a figure came into focus over Greg’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck, kill me,” Mycroft choked, looking quickly away, a bit numb with shock. 

“What is it?” Greg twisted around.

Mycroft grabbed him by the forearm. “Don’t, don’t look. I don’t want him to notice me and come over here.”

“Who?” Greg didn’t look, slowly turning his body toward Mycroft. “What’s the matter?”

“My…” Mycroft winced. “The someone who did something heartless to me. He’s just over there.” 

Greg went very still. “He is?”

“With his wife,” he managed, cutting a glance toward where Richard and Penny Taylor stood on the edge of a knot of people Mycroft knew from… everywhere. He’d gone to nursery school with most of those people. 

“With his…” Greg took a slow breath in. “Got it.” He slid sideways into Mycroft’s space. “Put your arm around my waist,” he said. 

“What?” Mycroft carefully didn’t do it automatically - eagerly, even. “Why?”

“Because I know how shit it feels to run into an ex when you’re single.” Greg quirked him a little smile. “Come on. Arm, waist.” 

And so they stood, leant against a fence, fingers tangled there and their outside arms slung with casual, intimate familiarity around one another. Greg tugged Mycroft a little closer with a proprietary hand, reaching all the way around to Mycroft’s hip. 

“See,” he murmured. “Now I’m saying something really sweet to you. Don’t look at them. Look down, and smile.”

Mycroft did, not needing to fake the smile. “And then?”

“You smell really good,” Greg said, face closer, lips almost skimming along Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft could only imagine what they must look like. “You always do.”

Mycroft shivered. “I do?”

“Mmhmm.” Greg’s hand tightened just a little, just for a moment, around Mycroft’s hip. “Now be subtle—” 

“I’ll have you know that I am  _ professionally subtle.” _

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg nudged his nose against Mycroft’s. “Be subtle and look— has he seen us?”

Mycroft glanced up through his lashes, then tipped his head back to look at Greg, letting his eyes slide just fractionally to the side. “Yes,” he said, nerves and satisfaction sending a shock through his stomach. “He’s going to come over here.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can just tell.”

“Someday you’ll explain your mind to me,” Greg whispered, leaning in ever closer. “Gonna kiss you now, okay?”

“Wh—”

Mycroft was in possession of a preternaturally sharp memory. It had only been a couple of months since the last time he and Greg kissed. He  _ remembered  _ it, very clearly. 

He didn’t remember it being like this. 

Greg’s lips were incredible, truly, delicious and irresistible. And  _ he _ smelled fantastic, forget about Mycroft, there was no way anyone had ever smelled this good. And no one’s hands had ever been quite this evocative, as one of Greg’s pressed against the base of Mycroft’s spine and the other trailed up his arm and neck so he could cup Mycroft’s jaw and direct him to deepen the kiss. 

_ Oh, my god.  _ Mycroft clung to the blazer he had chosen and bought for Greg. The one he had personally  _ put on him,  _ smoothing the lines of it and fussing with the cuffs. He let his fingers crunch into the fabric, needing something to keep them from shaking.  _ I am an idiot,  _ he thought.  _ I don’t deserve to own and operate a brain.  _

The kiss went on far longer than was appropriate, both for friends and for the setting, and when it ended, Mycroft had to be stern with himself to keep from begging for more. 

“Is he still planning to head this way?” Greg checked. 

Mycroft barely looked at Richard. He’d nearly forgotten all about him. “No,” he said, noting the redness of the back of Richard’s neck and the clench of his fist at his side. “No, he changed his mind.”

“Good,” Greg murmured. 

Mycroft was afraid to look him in the eye, but he steeled himself and did. 

Greg only smiled at him, as unflappable and good-natured as ever. “Want to ditch the rest of this thing?”

“God, yes,” Mycroft breathed. 

“Hold hands with me,” said Greg. “Really sell it.”

Mycroft thought he might die. 

  
  


*

  
  


“Sorry if that was weird,” Greg said later, over cartons of takeaway back in Mycroft’s London flat. Staying in Kent for dinner had seemed like a terrible idea after all, and Mycroft had chosen not to mention it. “I hope you’re alright with it, it was just… the idea that came to mind at the time.”

Mycroft nodded at his lo mein. “No, of course it’s fine. I… I’m grateful. I don’t think I could have managed an interaction with Richard, and it certainly worked. What you did, I mean.”

“Snogging you publicly, without talking about it first at all?” Greg snorted. “That?”

“It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t sure. You seemed… off.” 

“Well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “It was a very good kiss.”

He glanced at Greg, catching a twitch of a smile. 

“Yeah, guess it was,” Greg said. “Are there any more of those little dumpling things?”

Mycroft handed them over, careful not to let their fingers brush. 

“You ever going to tell me what went down between you and that bloke? Is he  _ the _ ex? The big one? The one that got away? What?”

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t know that he  _ got away.  _ That implies that I ever stood a chance at keeping him.”

“Is he straight? Or— does he think he is?”

“I am sorry to say that I don’t know.” Mycroft set aside his carton of noodles, appetite gone. “It’s a rare experience for me - not knowing. But he’s… opaque. I never could figure out what exactly his neuroses were based on.” 

“He left you for her?”

Mycroft smiled, knowing it looked bitter, but unable to soften it or stop it, unable to not  _ feel  _ bitter. “Not in the way you probably think. It wasn’t… clear-cut. Not at first. He was expected to get married. To Penelope, specifically. But…” Mycroft took a breath. “Richard and I were together all through University, publicly.  _ Publicly.  _ I feel the need to stress that. Everyone knew. I thought  _ everyone _ knew. We didn’t discuss his parents or mine. Mine have always been unconcerned with my proclivities and I assumed… he came back to school after the winter break our second year, and he was so upset, that I thought it must have been that he told them. He wouldn’t talk about it.” 

Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to look at Greg while he told this particular tale, so he focused instead on picking at a loose bit of the nap in the rug he was sitting on. “I loved him, you understand,  _ deeply.  _ Unconditionally, really. He could have - and did - hurt me in seven hundred horrible ways, and I would have forgiven him. I did. Many times. The first being when I learned that while he was with me, he and Penny - they’d begun dating while we were still finishing secondary school, then broken up just a month into our first term at Oxford - had been seeing each other. For a year. Anytime he wasn’t at University, he was with her. Around his family - with her. But… it was hard for him. He  _ couldn’t _ tell his mother and father. He was terrified of being disowned. He was so… very afraid. And I couldn’t understand it, and that made me privileged, and it was my job to be lenient with him, because it was so unfair.”

“That’s not—”

“I know that,” Mycroft said quietly. “I  _ knew _ that. And yet.” He swallowed and blew out a long breath. “He assured me it was all a show. Penny was in on it, he said. And then we graduated. And suddenly… I could only ever see him in hotels. Increasingly downmarket hotels, further and further from the parts of London anyone we knew would frequent. And I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop. And then I  _ tried,  _ and he was so distraught. Heartbroken. Desperate. He’d be devastated to lose me, I was more important than his mother’s approval, he was sure they would come around. He would call things off with Penny. He promised.” Mycroft shook his head. “The wedding invitation came to my flat, and I… I was sure it was a mistake. I couldn’t get him on the phone, but I wasn’t going to make a scene anywhere  _ public.  _ And so I waited. And… and he showed up the day before the wedding and apologized, said he was a coward but truly, this time he wouldn’t be. He was going to leave my flat and end things, disappoint everyone, call off the wedding.”

“He didn’t, though.”

“No.” Mycroft looked up at last, relieved to be dry eyed as he did. “Of course he didn’t. We spoke a week or so after the honeymoon. His tune had changed. He’s straight. He’s always been straight. Our  _ five years _ together were  _ fun.  _ But not  _ serious.  _ Experimentation.  _ Rebellion.” _

“What a fucking arsehole,” Greg said, his eyebrows drawn low over dark, angry eyes. “Mycroft— What the fuck— I should’ve  _ punched _ him.”

“The kiss was much nicer,” Mycroft said, smiling at the way this clearly surprised Greg out of his righteous fury. “And the saddest part of the entire, pathetic affair, is that I would be devastated to see him harmed. Still. To this day. I’m not— I don’t want him. I don’t hold out hope or carry a torch. But.” Mycroft shrugged. “I’ll always… you know.”

“Yeah.” Greg leaned forward over his own bent knees, chin resting on his folded arms. “God, Mycroft, I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“It was, and it is.”

“This is why… It’s why you don’t do dating?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. He reached for his noodles. “Oh, Greg. I haven’t even told you about  _ Kenneth.” _


	3. young hearts, run free

Greg cashed in on their deal - the one that allowed Greg to dress Mycroft - weeks later, when Mycroft had nearly forgotten about it. He had been so distracted by Greg’s impromptu (and for show  _ only, _ he reminded himself) kiss and the soul baring which followed, that the half-joking deal had been lost in the swirl of desperate, barely-contained lust and disgust with himself. Mycroft saw the clothes - handed back to him by Greg with a chuckle and a ‘ _ Your clothes. Watch is on your dresser. I was tempted to nick it, just so you know.’  _ \- hanging on the door of his closet every morning, and every morning he experienced a rush of embarrassment and sense memory. 

But it wasn’t until Greg said “I’m coming to yours tomorrow night and playing paper dolls, and then we’re going out,” that the deal came up again. 

“Playing what?” Mycroft was at work, and bored out of his skull - he was convinced he was being tested, to see how long he could rot away doing nothing in an office in the Department of Transport, before he cracked - but he had answered the phone distracted anyway, caught up in watching a bit of a domestic dispute playing out in the bus shelter just below his office window. 

“I’m dressing you up,” Greg clarified. “You alright? You sound miles away.”

“I think a woman is about to deliver a right hook to her husband just outside my office window. I’m wondering if I should call the police. You wouldn’t happen to be available, would you?”

“I’m off til three,” Greg said with a laugh. “Let some poor rookie handle that. Seriously though, do you need to hang up and call for help?”

“Mm,” Mycroft did consider it for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. He’s walking away. Poor girl, he’s impotent and has a terrible gambling addiction, but she thinks she can’t do better. Pity people are so…  _ people.” _

“What in the fuck,” Greg said, deadpan and dry as dust. “Mycroft, I have two things to say. First, I’m going to ask again if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.”

“We’ll pretend I believe you.” Greg spoke with the air of a man who was actively rolling his eyes. “Second,  _ how do you do that?” _

Mycroft smiled to himself. “Do what?”

“You  _ know _ what.”

“It’s just deduction, Constable Lestrade. You’re very good at it yourself.”

“Deduction! It’s psychic powers, if you ask me! Deduction, he says.” Greg made a faux-disgusted noise over the line. “Anyway, back to what I was calling about. I want to go out. To a gay bar. I want to go  _ dancing. _ But I don’t want to pull. Every date I’ve been on lately has been shit, and I don’t want another letdown. I just want to go out and have fun.”

Mycroft made his own disgusted scoffing sound. “And you thought  _ I know who’s endless fun - Mycroft?  _ Please.”

“You  _ are  _ fun. Anyway, will you go?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, always.”

There was never any question. Mycroft would go.

  
  


*

  
  


Greg came to Mycroft’s flat first, a bag in hand, and practically shoved Mycroft to the side in order to tear apart his wardrobe. 

“You own jeans,” he remarked, tossing those aside. “One pair, but still. Jeans!”

“I am a twenty-something man, of course I own jeans.”

“One. Pair.” Greg rolled his eyes and produced a pair of black trousers that Mycroft hasn’t worn yet, with the tags still on. “These are swish.”

Mycroft tried to will himself not to flush. “They’re flashier than I would normally… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“They’re going to look fucking amazing,” Greg muttered, already digging through the bag he’d brought with him. “With this.”

Mycroft caught the white top thrown at his face. “This is an  _ undergarment,”  _ he protested, holding the white t-shirt out in front of himself. 

“It’s a shirt,” Greg said. “It’s clean, and actually I’ve never worn it. It’s a size too small for me, which means it’ll be just right on you.”

“I can’t— “

“Put it on, Mycroft. Trousers, too. I’ll be here going through your accessories.”

Mycroft debated arguing, but Greg had already hauled open the top drawer of the wardrobe, so he gave up and went off to change. 

“You said this was a size too small for you, not two,” he said when he emerged from the bathroom. “This is too. Snug.” He tugged at the clinging white t-shirt. 

Greg glanced up and then glanced up again in a pronounced double-take. “It’s supposed to be snug,” he said. “Wow, you look great.”

“I look…” Mycroft shifted his weight. “I feel  _ naked.”  _

Greg chuckled and brought him an understated watch with a black leather band, and a black leather belt. “I’ve seen you naked,” he said, low and intimate as he fastened the watch around Mycroft’s wrist. “I promise, you look completely clothed right now.” He ran a hand over the shoulder seam of the shirt. “You do all that exercising and you hide all this away. You look fit, Mycroft. Deal with it. Not all shirts need cuffs and buttons.”

“That is the definition of a shirt,” Mycroft managed to say, with some semblance of authority. 

“Come on,” Greg said. “Let’s go get drunk.”

  
  


*

  
  


“So I have news,” Greg said once they had installed themselves against the bar with drinks. It was still early, and fairly quiet. Mycroft was glad for the chance to simply… be. He still felt a hot prickle of self consciousness in these clothes, and adding a crowd would only make it worse.

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows over his glass. “Go on.”

“I’m up for a position with CID,” Greg said, eyes bright. “Now that I only have one term left at the Open University, I’m hoping I can go for detective sergeant next year. I applied for D.C. once before and never made it past the first round, but… this is the third. If all goes well, I’ll be Detective Constable Lestrade by next month.”

Mycroft wanted to grab him and do something utterly ridiculous, like lift him off his feet. “Greg!” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s— I’m so pleased for you, why didn’t you mention this before?”

“Didn’t want to get my hopes up,” he said, a little sheepish. “Didn’t want to admit it if I didn’t make it, you know?”

Mycroft’s chest felt tight.  _ I would kiss you, _ he thought.  _ If it was like that between us.  _ “You’re going to make it,” he said instead. “I know you are.”

Greg smiled and ducked his head. “Thanks.”

“I’m buying your drinks tonight.” Mycroft turned and waved for the bartender. “And you should tell some unsuspecting, sweet, slip of a thing that you’re a detective. Try it on for size. See where it gets you.”

“No, no, no,” Greg said, but he let Mycroft order him another round. 

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft did get to indulge in the pleasure of watching Greg flirting with men, though it never lasted long. Greg would glance frequently toward Mycroft’s position near the bar, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and extract himself before wandering back. Mycroft sent him away again twice.

“You’re getting off on this,” Greg said when he returned after the second. “Aren’t you?”

Mycroft shrugged, unwilling to admit anything out loud. “You’re very handsome when you’re being flattered.” 

“So are you,” Greg replied. “Why haven’t you been mingling, huh?”

“No one here interests me.” Mycroft set his empty glass on the bar. “The dance floor must be decent by now.”

“Will you dance with me?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft decisively. “But first, one more drink, to celebrate.”

“Shots,” Greg said, nodding seriously. “Yes?”

Mycroft felt his hangover calling to him from the future. “Yes,” he replied. “Anything you want.”

  
  
  


*

  
  


They were drunk. Mycroft leaned into Greg’s space in the back of the taxi and buried his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Where are we going?”   


“Your flat is closer.”

“Don’t leave me alone,” Mycroft said, realizing from a distance that he should shut up, but not able to put the thought into action. 

“I won’t.” Greg’s hand squeezed Mycroft’s thigh. “I won’t.” 

They trip-walked up the stairs to Mycroft’s flat and spilled through the door together, a breathless laugh leaving Greg’s mouth where it smeared over Mycroft’s cheek. 

“Are we gonna kiss?” Greg asked, propping himself up against the wall and bringing Mycroft with him. “Can we?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, as decisively as he’d said it many other times to Greg that night.”Yes, we can.”

The kiss was sloppy, but just as good as the others had been in Mycroft’s memory. Greg’s fingers were rough against his cheeks, his stubble scraping Mycroft’s chin and lips as they found the right angle. 

“God, you’re so good at that,” Greg muttered, yanking the snug t-shirt up Mycroft’s torso to get to his skin. “And you’re so fucking. Hot.”

“I have the strangest sense of deja vu,” Mycroft said, fumbling with Greg’s belt. “Let me touch— Can I?”

“Fuck, yes.”

And soon they were pulling each other off up against the wall just inside Mycroft’s flat, kissing hot and messy with their free hands gripping at whatever skin was within reach. 

“Your hands,” Greg groaned. 

_ “Your  _ hands,” Mycroft countered, then sucked a mark to the side of Greg’s neck. 

“Mycroft—” Greg’s hips hitched forward. “Mycroft, gonna—”

“Yes,” Mycroft hissed, holding onto Greg firmly by the back of the neck, their foreheads pressed tightly together, breath colliding in the scant space between them. “Do it, do it, come on.”

“I— Mycroft, I—” 

Mycroft kissed him through it, biting at Greg’s lower lip and drinking down his noises as wetness spilled over Mycroft’s knuckles. “Good,” Mycroft said, then kissed him again. “So good.”

Greg mumbled something unintelligible, then sunk to the floor, sliding down with a hand on the wall for balance. “In my mouth,” he demanded. 

Mycroft could have fainted. “You—”

“Mycroft, fuck my mouth.  _ Please.” _

_ God help me.  _ Mycroft did as told, feeding his aching cock into Greg’s open, waiting mouth. 

“I won’t last,” he gasped. 

Greg only moaned around him and held onto Mycroft’s hips, fingers digging in to urge him on. 

It was embarrassingly fast - or it would have been embarrassing had Mycroft not been so gone on the sensation and the burn of liquor. Mycroft came with a shout, curling over Greg’s kneeling form to keep his knees from giving out under him. 

Greg gentled him through, hands petting at Mycroft’s thighs. Eventually, Mycroft joined him on the ground, groaning at the taste of himself when he kissed it away from Greg’s mouth. 

“Jesus,” Greg groaned. “God, we shouldn’t’ve—” 

“It’s alright,” Mycroft assured him. “It’s fine.”

“I need to. Lie down.”

Mycroft nodded urgently and wrestled his way up off of the floor, pulling his trousers up as he went. He helped Greg up with a hand and allowed himself to indulge in the urge to sway forward and kiss him, just one more time. “Bed,” he said. “Just for sleeping.”

“Can’t do anything else,” Greg muttered, but he shuffled after Mycroft, let Mycroft keep hold of his hand, and was compliant about being undressed and chivvied into bed. 

Mycroft wasn’t much better off, and he more or less collapsed on the mattress beside Greg, groaning at the thought of his headache in the morning. 

Greg rolled and shifted, curling in close, his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and a hand on his chest. “Love you,” he murmured and, Mycroft assumed, fell asleep. 

Mycroft stared at the ceiling and told his eyes not to sting. Told his chest not to ache. Clenched his jaw and took a breath. 

This couldn’t continue.

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft traveled to a conference in Germany with several of the usual suspects. Marcus was on the same flight, and Mycroft executed several strategic maneuvers to avoid being seated anywhere near him, winding up near Phillip Gresham, who snored through the short flight but was otherwise inoffensive. 

The conference was, on its surface, nothing more than dry talk of what passed for innovation in the neverending quest to improve bureaucratic productivity. As far as Mycroft was aware, every person he knew who was attending was  _ actually  _ a boring civil servant. Mycroft, on the other hand, would be attending a few off-the-books talks and seminars. Knowing that took away some of the irritation of being stuck in coach with Phillip and Marcus. 

He busied himself with reading several briefs he wanted to review before the start of the conference the next day. It was difficult to concentrate, just as it had been for two weeks now, ever since…

Mycroft sighed and found his gaze drifting to the dark sky outside the little porthole to his right. He and Greg had woken, sheepish and with sore heads, and Greg had simply made a joke about  _ what’s a little steam blown off between friends - ha ha, blown off, get it?  _ Mycroft had assessed his achy grin and come to the conclusion that Greg remembered the sex - if one could call it that - but not what he’d said in the haze of descending sleep. 

It was for the best. 

Mycroft was sure of that, despite the fact that two weeks later he could still feel the phantom weight of Greg against him as he slept. 

He returned his eyes to the brief in his lap. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was about. 

  
  


*

  
  


By the second day of the conference, Mycroft was more dejected than he’d been on the plane over. He felt tired and overstimulated from the crowds, his blandest smile feeling pasted on at the luncheon on Saturday. 

He excused himself from it early in order to catch his breath in his room before heading out in order to catch a taxi to a different hotel and a different set of meeting rooms. 

There, he received a boost to his morale and a tiny frisson of excitement that he allowed himself to enjoy for exactly the time it took to get back to the conference hotel. 

One of the speakers had shaken Mycroft’s hand and mentioned his uncle. Mycroft had responded circumspectly, stepping delicately around Uncle Rudy’s more clandestine accomplishments. 

The speaker, a man flown in from the CIA for this particular meeting, had fixed Mycroft with an appraising look. “You ever been to the States?”

“I have yet to have the pleasure,” Mycroft had said. 

“Hm.” The man produced a card. “We can change that. I’ll be in touch with your superior’s office.”

In the taxi, Mycroft tucked the card carefully into his wallet, slipping it behind his NHS card and refusing to look at it like the golden ticket he felt it could be. 

He had missed cocktail hour, and his tag was one of few left on a table outside of the banquet room, the little slip of paper bearing his name and a table number. The last thing he wanted was to suffer through a formal dinner, but it would raise questions if he skipped it. Besides, he needed to organize his thoughts, and what better time to do so than when everyone else would be engaged in droning small talk all around him?

He made his way quickly to his assigned place at Table 8, recognizing Gresham from halfway across the room as he did, as well as— 

Mycroft’s steps faltered. 

_ No.  _

There was only one empty chair remaining at the table, and immediately to its left, sat Richard Taylor. 

  
  


*

  
  


_ “It would be nice if we could speak in private after this.”  _

Mycroft ought to have ignored it. He should have simply stood and left the table. Instead, he experienced a familiar sensation - a paradoxical combination of sinking and lifting, a stone making its way from his throat to his stomach even as butterflies rose up behind his ribs. He nodded, silent, and ate his meal with a blank mind. 

Richard followed him subtly after, and without any verbal communication needed, fell into step toward the elevator and Mycroft’s room. 

Mycroft didn’t know what he expected. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence was ringing. Mycroft stood on one side of the room and Richard on the other, and they stared at each other. 

“Well?” Mycroft snapped, feeling anger, finally, welling up in his chest. This, too, was familiar. “What did you have to say to me? Is it  _ I’m sorry?” _

“I’ve already said that to you,” said Richard quietly. 

_ “When?” _

“Many times.”

Mycroft scoffed. “How very rich,” he muttered, turning toward the large window with its ugly brocade curtains. “Many times. Yes, over all these years, you have apologized to me many times, haven’t you? Because you have wronged me many times. Haven’t you?”

Richard cleared his throat, but his voice was still raspy when he said, “Yes.”

Mycroft felt his anger burning out as he turned to face him. 

Richard was still so good looking. Of course he was; he probably always would be. When he and Mycroft were first together, Mycroft was freshly freed of his baby fat and horribly unsure of what to do or how to do it in the social situations in which he found himself. He had known Richard, somewhat distantly, at boarding school. At Oxford, he found himself in the same social circle. The same parties, the same dinners. The same pretentious gatherings. Richard around every corner. And to pale, awkward, freckled Mycroft with all his odd habits and differences, Richard had been practically  _ godlike.  _ Tall and dark-haired, masculine and broad in all the ways  _ everyone _ is meant to like. He had been eighteen but looked much, much older and was much more self possessed than most of their peers. Mycroft had been doomed to love him, and had not known what to do with himself the first time Richard made a pass at him. 

He didn’t know what to do at this moment, either. Richard watched him, dark hair still thick and perfectly styled, eyes still bright blue and piercing. He was getting premature lines between his brows. A lot of scowling, too much worry. Pinching the space between his eyes in pain or frustration. Other tells began to register - evidence of sleeplessness, signs that he’d held a baby while wearing the same tie he wore now, a ragged quality to his shave job that belied a chronically shaky hand. Frequently hungover. He drank. Quite a lot.

Mycroft cataloged all of it and then some. And for once, he asked himself how he felt about all his deductions. And he felt… very tired.

“What do you want, Richie?”

Richard winced. “I’m not sure I know.”

“Did you follow me up here hoping I would fuck you?” Mycroft needed a drink. He moved toward the mini bar. 

“N—” Richard took a nervous step forward. “I— I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so,” Mycroft murmured, mostly to himself, emptying a tiny bottle of subpar blended scotch into a tumbler, and then another. He knocked it back. “Well why not, Richard? We both know I’m a sure thing.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”   


“From  _ everyone,  _ yes.”

Mycroft barked a laugh. “You have no right to say that to me in that tone.  _ None.” _

“I know that. I know.”

“Please, just say what you want and go.”

Richard simply stood there. 

The stone in Mycroft’s sternum dropped further. “You did come here hoping I would fuck you.”

“I miss you,” Richard said, his voice edged in desperation and urgency as he stepped forward again, one hand outstretched. 

Mycroft held up his own hand. “No,” he said, shocking himself. It had been over a year since the last time they did this dance, and before that they had done it several times before. And never once had it ever occurred to Mycroft to say  _ No _ . “No, I won’t do this. Richie, just go. Go to your room, and sleep, and in the morning go back to Penny and your baby. And please, just let me  _ go.  _ Don’t  _ think  _ of me. I don’t want to think of you anymore.”

“Wh— That’s not true.” Richard moved closer, chest bumping up against Mycroft’s hand. “We both know that’s not true. We both know— Look at  _ Kenneth.” _

“I fail to see what your brother has to do with this,” said Mycroft coolly, even as his insides twisted and squirmed.

Richard laughed, a breath, a sharp exhale more than anything else. “Don’t you? Did you do him just to hurt me?”

“I didn’t  _ do _ him,” Mycroft spat, “Don’t be  _ vulgar.  _ I was with him for  _ a year.”  _

“He’s a snake, Mycroft.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Mycroft pushed Richard away. 

“You still sleep with him.”

“Not for months.”

“You do it because he reminds you of me. It makes you look desperate. It’s  _ sad.” _

“Get out, Richard.”

“Mycroft, please, just—” Richard reached for him, caught him by the elbow and pulled him in. Their lips met.

At one time, Richard was heavier than Mycroft. Stronger. Things had changed. 

Mycroft thought of Greg kissing him sweetly and thoroughly beside a polo field, and then later saying  _ I should have punched him,  _ and Mycroft didn't, but he did shove him back harder this time. 

“Keep your hands off me,” Mycroft snapped. The anger was building again, but so was a giddy feeling of _finally._ The kiss had felt like _nothing._ It had felt no better - had actually been far less stimulating than - one from a complete stranger. “I am not so pathetic that I would fall for this again. Get out of my room.”

“So you’ll fuck strangers and half your friends, but—” 

“It’s not your business,” Mycroft said evenly. “Get out. Of my room. Goodbye, Richie. Have a nice life.”

Richard gaped at him, then snapped shut his jaw with a click. Mycroft watched the hope drain from his face and did not feel any pleasure - but he did not feel sympathy either. He knew that Richard was hurt, that he was  _ hurting  _ and probably would forever. But he’d made his choices. He wasn’t Mycroft’s problem any longer. 

Richard didn’t speak again. He shook his head and looked away, turned with the air of a man walking the plank or to the gallows, and left. 

Mycroft stood very still for a moment, and then glanced at the telephone beside the bed. 

The only person he wanted to speak to now was Greg, but he couldn’t possibly call. Greg… was on a date. He’d mentioned it to Mycroft days ago. A girl from Traffic. Rebecca. 

She was the third woman Greg had gone out with since Mycroft met him. Greg had also, apparently, gone for coffee with four men. None of them had resulted in a second date, and Greg hadn’t seemed particularly enthused about this one. Apparently his friend Gregson had set it up, worried that Greg was becoming a monk. 

The likelihood was low that this date would be any different from the others, but what if it was? What if Mycroft called now and Greg was busy with her? What if Mycroft interrupted them? The thought made him feel vaguely nauseous. He sat on the edge of his uncomfortable hotel room chair, and breathed for a moment with his head in his hands. 

“Oh, god,” he murmured to himself. 

He had been so… inept. All of this was a giant cock up. Mycroft thought of the business card in his wallet - his first real connection in a long time, at least since he requested to be taken off field duty three years ago. He thought of the cool-eyed man who had handed it to him. He thought of the CIA, and MI6, and the Home Office, and Uncle Rudy. 

And Mycroft laughed, because  _ god,  _ he could fire a gun and manipulate a government and make a deal. But  _ this _ he had been unable to handle in any sensible manner. He had been working toward power and influence since he was eighteen years old, and he was getting closer and closer all the time - but in  _ this,  _ he was practically a child. 

_ That’s how it is, _ said Greg’s voice in his head. 

Mycroft groaned. 

  
  


*

  
  


The rest of his engagements at the conference passed in a blur. Mycroft found himself distracted, and he didn’t particularly care. He didn’t  _ need  _ to know about efficiency in transport scheduling. He knew part of maintaining a decent cover was authenticity, but…

_ I love him, _ he thought, trying it on for size while some actuary from Belgium went on and on and on.  _ I’m in love with him. I love someone.  _

Mycroft swallowed the nerves in his throat. He felt vaguely dizzy. This was almost  _ transgressive _ of him at this point - he’d been so against such a thing for so long. 

_ He loves me,  _ he thought.  _ Why? Why does he—  _

Mycroft tapped his pen against the unopened cover of his favorite leather folio. 

_ How will I manage it?  _ He wondered.  _ What happens when— when my job… What happens when he meets my  _ brother  _ or my  _ parents _?  _ Mycroft suppressed a shudder. He didn’t want to think of the way Kenneth had treated Sherlock, or the indifference Richard had shown him, or the way Mycroft’s mother’s face had fallen when Mycroft told her that in fact, he was alone again (naturally).

_ This is why, _ Mycroft told himself.  _ This is the reason I don’t do this. I don’t do this. I can’t.  _

  
  


*

  
  


He went straight from Heathrow to his flat and slept for ten hours. When he woke, he dragged himself into a shower to wash away the plane and the grit, the exhaustion and the confusion. He was making tea when the telephone rang. 

“You’re home!”

Mycroft’s defenses took a hard hit at the sound of Greg’s voice. “Hello, yes. How are you?”

“Missed you this weekend,” Greg said. “Rebecca left me high and dry. Cancelled to go on a mini break with her girlfriends, can you believe?”

“I can’t,” Mycroft said, meaning it. Who in their  _ right mind  _ would— Well. Mycroft had turned Greg Lestrade down, hadn’t he? 

_ I wasn’t in my right mind.  _

_ Am I, now? Or is this more idiocy on my part? Am I sinking my own—  _

“You want to get a takeaway and watch trash telly with me tonight? I have a final meeting with CID this week and I could use a night of nonsense and unhealthy food. And, like I said, I missed you this weekend.”

It took Mycroft’s breath, the way Greg could say such things, as if they cost nothing. “Yes,” he managed to say with numb lips. “Yes, of course.”

“Great. Mine?”

Mycroft agreed to the place and then to a time, mind going blank as he did. 

“You alright?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

He barely heard what Greg said before ringing off. 

  
  


*

  
  


Greg hugged him at the door, which was new. Mycroft let his eyes fall shut and his muscles do what they wanted - relaxing into Greg’s hold. 

“This is so soft,” Greg murmured, fingers rubbing the fabric of Mycroft’s jumper between them. 

It was new-ish, in that Mycroft had never worn it. It was a bit… twee. A sort of pinkish mauve color and  _ fuzzy, _ not something he would have much cause to wear anywhere. But he’d wanted it the moment he saw it in the store and, as he was wont to do, had indulged himself. 

“It is,” he said, feeling stupid and clumsy, as if his tongue had grown a size. “I… I’m not surprised that you like it.” 

Greg grinned at him. “Well, I like it on you,” he said. “This color would wash me right out, I could never pull it off. I’d probably look ridiculous in something so lovely. But you, Mycroft… you can pull off lovely.”

Mycroft followed him into the lounge, where bags of takeaway already waited on the coffee table. 

“Got our usual from the Golden Dragon,” Greg told him. “That okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

As they divvied up cartons and Greg chattered on a touch nervously about his work day, Mycroft thought of the way Greg had looked at him in a silk kimono. The way he had never so much as teased Mycroft for his… foibles. 

He found himself staring at Greg’s profile, letting his rough voice wash over him. Greg glanced up from the table and caught on Mycroft’s gaze. 

“Hey,” he said, his brow pinching. “What is it?”

Mycroft felt slightly suffocated. He had the strangest urge to take the jumper off. Underneath, he wore the white t-shirt Greg had stuffed him into the night they went dancing. That might be worse, actually, feeling that exposed. Instead, he sat on the couch and Greg sat on the floor, and Mycroft decided that now was the time, or it would never come again.

“I…” Mycroft took a breath. “I saw Richard in Germany.”

Greg dropped the wrapped chopsticks in his hand. “Wait - what?”

“He wanted to have sex with me.” Mycroft drew a breath. “Also I need to tell you, because I may have left it out when I told you about him, that Kenneth is Richard’s brother.”

Greg winced. “Mycroft,  _ what—” _

“Yes.” Mycroft licked his dry lips, but did not look away from Greg’s confused face. “I am that pathetic. It is that twisted. Or, was. I don’t. I didn’t sleep with Richard in Germany. I threw him out of my room.”

“You did?”

“Yes.” Mycroft paused. “You told me you love me, that night after the dancing.”

“I know I did.”

“You  _ know _ you did?”

Greg rubbed his hands against the knees of his jeans, drying sweaty palms. “I didn’t think you heard.” 

“I heard.”

“Okay.”

Mycroft wished he could just. Kiss him. The way he had the morning after they met, when he had crossed the kitchen and put his mouth to Greg’s and felt so… tangled. It didn’t feel that way this time, and Mycroft couldn’t. He couldn’t use attraction as a blunt instrument. That wasn’t what this was. Or, it wasn’t all it was.

“I did mean it,” Greg said, eyes averted. “In a lot of different ways. You’re one of my best friends, now. And I… I love that. I love that we’re friends. And I know it’s not your thing, but I do… feel more than that.” 

“It’s not that it isn’t  _ my thing—”  _

“Seems like you’ve made bloody sure that it isn’t.”

“Perhaps, but…” Mycroft gathered his nerve. “I’m in love with you.” 

The admission fell between them, and Mycroft almost expected it to land with real force, upsetting the noodles and the fortune cookies. 

“You… are?”

“Of course I am.” Mycroft felt himself flushing. “Who wouldn’t be? But I, specifically, have been subject to your goodness and your… everything… for months and I can’t— I don’t  _ want  _ to ignore it. I don’t want to pretend that it doesn't exist.”

Greg coughed and covered his face with his hand, taking a deep, steadying breath before dropping his hand. His eyes were wet. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “I’m sorry I carried a torch for a man who didn’t care about me, and that I chose to be with other people who didn’t even know me, and left you out of it. The night we met was— It ruined everything, and I’m so glad. I shouldn’t have pushed you away.” 

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Mycroft shifted from the sofa to the floor, folding his legs so that he fit behind the coffee table with Greg. “Do you have any idea… I used to believe in love. And partnership. And friendship. I used to think real connection existed. And because of you I—”

Greg cut him off with a kiss, his lips soft and sweet and his hands unbearably gentle on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft sighed into it, grateful to have had his fumbling rambling cut off, and deeply affected, as if he had been missing Greg’s lips for decades and not weeks. 

“I know,” Greg said, breaking the kiss. “I know, I know you used to. Of course you did. But Mycroft… it’s not about believing. It just  _ is.  _ It’s  _ fact.  _ I love you, so much, I—”

“I love you,” Mycroft said, the words in that exact order taking shape on his lips for the first time in years. They felt like gems, like something precious. Something he was handing to Greg with both hands. 

“I want to take you dancing,” Greg said. 

“I want to watch you flirt with other men and know you’ll leave with me.”

“Fine,” Greg laughed. “If you want, I’ll go to more polo with you, but you have to come to football matches with me.”

“Done. You’ll have to meet Alicia. I suppose she  _ is  _ the best, most true friend I have. She’s a viper. I’m sorry.”

Greg snorted. “You’ll have to hang out with coppers sometimes.” 

“I will be insecure. I will be convinced you are going to leave. For a while.”

“We’ll work on that.” Greg kissed him, brief, and through a smile. “I might work crazy hours if I get this job with CID.”

Mycroft drew a breath. “I may travel often. You will have to accept that I may never tell you much about my work.”

“Will you show me how you deduce things the way you do?”

“Yes.” Mycroft kissed him once, twice. “Yes, I will. You’re the only person who has  _ never _ thought it odd.”

“You’re a genius. Aren’t you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Not at all.”

Mycroft yanked him forward and kissed him, hard, their teeth colliding a little. 

“Dinner—” Greg said, muffled between them. 

“To hell with dinner,” Mycroft breathed. “Get your bloody clothes off.”

  
  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft had forgotten about sex that worked this way, with this much meaning behind it. This much feeling. There was a moment, as Greg stroked soft hands down his face and throat and shoulders, touching Mycroft as if he’d never get the chance again, that Mycroft panicked. He had forgotten how terrifying it was, handing this much over to someone. 

But then Greg smiled, and kissed him, and said, “I want a dressing gown like yours.”

“I will fly to Japan to get you one.”

“Okay.” Greg traced Mycroft’s nipples with his fingertips. “We’ll fuck in them. A lot.”

“Yes.”

Greg rolled them so Mycroft was on top. “I want to look at you like this.”

Mycroft felt himself flush. “Why?”

“One usually does the whole worship thing on one’s knees,” Greg said. “But I think I’m comfortable doing it from under you. That alright?”

Mycroft laughed, and felt - for once - worthy. “Yes,” he said. “That’s alright.”

  
  


*

  
  


In the morning they woke, moving seamlessly from sleep to awareness with their legs tangled, Mycroft’s thigh thrown over Greg’s hip and both of them already hard. 

“Just come here,” Greg murmured, a firm hand against Mycroft’s backside showing him how to move, encouraging him to slot them together under the covers, warmth and friction and sweat as they rolled together. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Mycroft muttered, delirious with affection and the knowledge that he was not dreaming. He got a hand in Greg’s hair, tilting him back so he could see his face. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever—”

“Shh,” Greg whispered. “My ego will go mad.”

“You are,” Mycroft insisted, and shoved Greg over onto his back. “Don’t you shush me.”

Greg laughed. “I love you, you gorgeous, posh arsehole. Now focus. I want to come and then I want to make you breakfast.”

“Such romance,” Mycroft said, but his chest was heaving with every breath as he wrapped a hand around them both and stroked, so the effect was rather ruined. 

“I’ll show you romance,” Greg said, and pinched Mycroft’s nipple. 

Mycroft cried out and his hips jerked. Greg moaned and writhed beneath him. “Do it again.”   
  
Greg switched sides and pinched again. And Mycroft came like falling off a cliff. He kept his eyes on Greg, on his satisfied grin, and did not stop the motion of his hand. He pressed the backs of two knuckles just behind Greg’s balls and got out of the way in order to move his hand faster, more roughly. 

Greg’s face was even more beautiful twisted in pleasure, his entire body bowing against the mattress as he came over his own belly and dripping through Mycroft’s fingers. 

In the stunned silence after, Mycroft stared at the mess on his hand and on Greg’s torso. Greg stared at Mycroft. 

“We’re always going to be a little bit like this, I think,” Greg said eventually. 

Mycroft laughed. “Thank god,” he said, and leaned down for a kiss, mess and all. 

  
  
  


*

  
  


Greg rubbed his face against the softness of Mycroft’s middle, once again clad in the fuzzy pinkish jumper. “Do you have lots of jumpers like this?”

“Jumpers?” Mycroft contemplated this. “No. But clothes in general, yes.”

“Okay.” Greg breathed him in, ostentatiously burying his nose in the jumper. “When it’s just us, you should wear them.” 

“You don’t find it…”

“I find it adorable.” Greg said. “I love your fancy things. You  _ are  _ a fancy thing. You and your blazers and pocket squares.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well.  _ That  _ blazer and  _ that  _ pocket square are, in fact, yours. I… bought them for you.”

Greg lifted his head and looked at him, grinning. “Wow, you were  _ really  _ gone on me even then, huh?”

Mycroft did not stop to think. He didn’t feel the need to. 

“Yes,” he said. 

  
  


**The end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this one :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles from Candi Staton's "Young Hearts Run Free," a song referenced in the fic. 
> 
> Find me on twitter @meansgirlwrites


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